Impaired
by Gaia Faye
Summary: The Holy Mother is not yet empowered, and for a certain sacrament, death is not the end. SH4, post '21 Sacraments' ending. Contains semiSLASH.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any incarnations of Silent Hill or its characters. Thank ya kindly for not suin'.

**Author's Note:** A Silent Hill 4 fanfic. I seriously just thought of the title to this mutha right before uploading it into the document manager. lol Way to forget about an important element of the damn story. Anyways, please read on, and if you notice any gross errors, PLEASE TELL ME. I want to make this as convincing as possible. Of course, anything that will be later explained or could be argued will be dismissed.

This takes place after the '21 Sacraments' ending. The first ending I got. I suck.

* * *

**PROLOGUE**

"Mother," Ivan said softly, bowing his head at his superior. "May I speak with you?"

Miranda was not Ivan's birth mother. The term was meant as it would be in a church convent, though in The Order of Silent Hill, women were allowed to act as priestesses and not nuns. "Of course, my dear," Miranda said, pulling the hood of her cloak over her thick graying hair. Her worn lips smiled, deceptive in their softness, at the young man.

"I am sorry to make a ridiculous comparison," Ivan began, "but I can't help but think of Sister Claudia."

Miranda chuckled. "It _is_ ridiculous to compare today with her silly escapade. Why would you possibly be worried?"

"Mother, you remember," Ivan said. "We found… her… in the church. You saw her. Something… Something incredible happened. Some of us think that maybe it nearly worked."

"Yes, and I remember finding Father Vincent too! And all those poor brothers and sisters…" Miranda scoffed at him. "Don't be foolish! That… _girl_ was not the mother of God. She was in her former life, but now… Now she is nothing to our religion. She has been tainted. Forget about her." She shook her head. "She killed so many of our own. And Claudia set us back in so many ways. If Walter hadn't completed the ceremony when he did…"

"It is only natural to doubt, Mother," Ivan said. "Even the most faithful--"

"I don't know how anyone could possibly have any doubts! The Holy Mother, our God, is with us now."

"Yes, but She is weak," Ivan pointed out. "We were thinking that perhaps the process was performed wrong. Perhaps one or more of the sacrifices were in error."

"She is weak because the process is incomplete," Miranda barked. "The Sacraments were chosen by God and executed by the hand of Her Son. There were no errors. I'm surprised that any of you would think such a thing."

Ivan nodded. "I apologize, Mother."

And that is what Miranda liked most about Ivan. She only had to set him straight once, and he would never question her again. She'd hate to think of what would happen if one day he questioned her twice.

"Now, I know you are young, and it is natural for you to be inquisitive," she went on, "but the others who have questioned the Holy Mother… Do you think that they are losing faith?"

"Only one. Sister Ursula has been behaving oddly." Ivan folded his arms. "I think she might betray us."

"Now, don't jump to conclusions," Miranda said. "Many of the Order get edgy. It's only natural. You said it yourself."

"I think she's hiding something."

Miranda regarded him carefully. He had become something of an advisor to her over the years. She nodded. "Well, we'll have to keep an eye on her."

There was a knock at the door. Miranda called for the person to come in. The door opened and in stepped Walter Sullivan. Ivan instantly bowed to him. Miranda inclined her head.

"We're ready to go, Mother Miranda," Walter said with his eerily pleasant smile, not taking notice of the young man. He held the door open, eager to be off.

Miranda glanced back at Ivan, pleased to see that he had picked up the large wood box without being told. Painted red, the Halo of the Sun was engraved into the lid and surrounded by intricate designs. The brass closure, latched, matched the hinges and decorative details. Ivan held it carefully before of him, resting it on his forearms and curling his fingers over the bottom to the front.

"Are you excited, Walter?" Miranda asked as she followed Ivan out the door.

The Son nodded. "Very much so, Mother Miranda," he replied as he closed the door. Miranda fell in step beside him as they walked down the hall. Ivan followed behind, head constantly bowed over the box in the Son's presence. "I have never wanted anything more than for Mother to be restored to her purest state."

Miranda nodded. "The day will come soon. Today marks the new beginning for God." She smiled. "The Home of Eternal Paradise shall overtake this disgraced world and restore it to God's glory."

They walked in silence then. They left the administrative building, walked through the campground and across Sandford Street, and met the rest of the congregation at the docks. Miranda instructed them to board the rowboats and set off for the island, giving special instructions to be especially careful to the two men in charge of a long bundle draped in white. She then went to the boat already boarded by Ivan and the Son. Ivan sat at the head of the boat, still clutching the box and bowing his head. Walter was at the center, but stood up to help Miranda into the vessel.

"Don't forget what I told you, Walter," she said as she sat down on the rear plank.

Walter took his seat and took up the oars. "I haven't, Mother Miranda."

"It is a great responsibility. It is only you, Her Son, who the Mother has trusted for his care."

"I know." His expression did not change, but his tone was somewhat more cheerful. "Mother trusts me, and I will serve Her in any way she asks. I could not do any less. She has given me so much, even he is…" Walter trailed off, feeling a sudden surge of happiness. Such bouts of elation occurred frequently in the weeks that had followed the Descent. But he knew that the moments of joy were not meant to last, so he did not want to spoil this one with more words.

Miranda put a hand on his arm, bowed her head. "God is so Gracious to us. I am also humbled."

Walter said nothing. He started to row.

* * *

Please continue to Chapter One. It's fun, I promise. 


	2. Chapter One

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any incarnations of Silent Hill or its characters.

**Author's Note:** Um... nothing much to say, besides reminding y'all to let me know of any possible discrepancies.

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE  
Resurrection**

There is an island in the west of Toluca Lake. It is south of the Lake View Hotel and north of the Silent Hill Historical Society, equidistant but completely masked from both points within the fog. Back before the Historical Society was Toluca Prison, when Silent Hill did not have that name and the land was home to the Native Americans, this island was a place of ritual. Not long before the English settlers moved into the area, something inexplicably terrible happened there, and it was deemed a forbidden place by the fearful natives.

In recent decades, it became again a place of ritual, a place of spirits, a place where this existence and the next meet and incredible things happen.

From the dock on the northwest side of the island, it is a five minute walk down a weed-ridden path to the mouth of a cave. The mouth opens to a tunnel, and that tunnel leads to a large cave in the center of the island. The stone room is vast and round; its floor is flat and its walls arc up to form a domed ceiling with a hole broken through its center. The light that makes its way into Silent Hill shoots down to the platform in the middle of the cave. The platform was placed there many, many years ago; it is a large oblong rock that rises a few feet off the ground. It has been used in many ceremonies.

Two men dressed in black carried the body in ever so carefully, not just because they knew of its grand significance, but also for fear of the man who closely accompanied them. His face was characterized by an empty smile, but the misleading expression was unnerving to all who knew Walter Sullivan.

The body was enclosed in a white pall that had been sewn closed around it. Extra needlework in red around the seam formed archaic characters from the days of The Order's origin. The ladies who had done the stitching were to be given great credit; the appearance and stench of a shredded, forty-days-dead corpse was nothing pleasant to deal with. But they knew of the importance-- no, the _honor_ of the deed and completed their task without complaint.

The two men eased the covered body down onto the stone platform. The shaft of gray light from a hole in the ceiling made this the centerpiece of the room. In the darkness of the perimeter many people, also darkly garbed, watched and waited. They had ceased murmuring once the pall bearers entered with the body and the Son. The body-bearing men retreated into the surrounding circle of people. Walter remained by the small dais, staring contentedly at the shrouded form.

A woman stepped forward and took a place besides Walter. Her hair was thick and gray, her skin soft but wrinkled, and her eyes bright but hard. She placed a hand on his arm and smiled when he looked over at her. He nodded and took a few steps back, but left his gaze upon the still body hidden by the cloth.

As the woman spoke, she made a circle around the cadaver while holding her hand out in welcome to the other people. "We are here today to perpetuate the plans of the Holy Mother. Events of the past have made our cause for Her stagnant, halted, but now that She has been brought among us we can begin again with new enlightenment."

"Oh, God. Open the gates to Paradise," replied the shrouded congregation. "Grant us escape from this Nation of Sin."

A young man, unremarkable with blonde hair cut close to his head, stepped forward with a red book. It was already opened to a particular page. The older woman took it and stood at the head of the platform. The young man walked into the dark outer part of the cave, then returned and gave Walter an onyx goblet and a vial of a liquid so purely white that it seemed to glow.

The woman stepped forward and read: "Speak. I am the Crimson One. The lies and the mist are not they but I. You all know that I am One. Yes, and the One is I. Believers hearken to me! Twenty score men and seven thousand beasts. Heed my words and speaketh them to all, that they shall ever be obeyed even under the light of the proud and merciless sun."

The young man had withdrawn to the edges of the cave, and returned for the final time with a young woman, not much older than himself. She kept her gaze low, daring not to glance at either the tall man in the blue coat or the hidden form. The young man returned to the congregation.

"I shall bring down bitter vengeance upon thee and thou shalt suffer my eternal wrath. The beauty of the withering flower and the last struggles of the dying man, they are my blessings. Thou shalt ever call upon me and all that is me in the place that is silent. Oh, proud fragrance of life which flies towards the heart."

It was here that Walter opened the clear vial and poured the opalescent liquid into the black goblet. He held it out to the young woman, who accepted it with a head bowed deeply in reverence.

"Oh Cup which brims with the whitest of wine, it is in thee that all begins."

The young woman held the obsidian goblet over the covered form, then drew the edge to her lips and drank down the white chrism.

There was a low buzzing sound; it was the hum of Brothers and Sisters of The Order. They watched with contained apprehension as Walter stepped over to the sacrifice and took the goblet and she finally looked up at him. She had no fear; it was a privilege to see his face, to feel his hand in her hair, to have him pull her head back, to experience the pain of his knife drawing across her throat.

"Oh, Holy Mother! We sacrifice one of our own Sisters to you! We are humbled by Your might and power! Take her soul and return that of the Final Sign to his physical form! We live only to serve as You ask!"

Walter held the goblet under the bleeding throat, collecting the thick flow. Once he was satisfied, he placed the cup on the platform and took up his knife again. He thrust the blade into the heart of the already trembling and gurgling body. It shook once more, and then was lifeless. He let it fall to the cold stone floor.

He then slipped the blade across his own wrist, allowing a few drops of his own life to mix with the blood in the cup. The cut healed itself.

"Oh, Holy Mother! Your Son draws his own blood to unite himself with Your Servant, to instill in him an existence like his own! We live only to serve as You ask!"

Walter picked up the goblet and poured the blood onto the ivory cloth over the corpse. It seeped through, sunk its way to the lacerated face beneath.

"By the Crimson Ceremony, restore him!"

The humming ceased.

Moments of silence.

Under the white pall, the body suddenly sat up, and there was a muffled gasping breath. Immediately it began to thrash in the enclosure in a panic, and in a moment Walter was at its one side and the gray-haired woman at the other, and Walter cut the cloth open with his bloody knife.

The fabric split, revealing the nude form of Henry Townshend, coated in revived blood, screaming and cowering as his skin sewed itself back together. The pain of his body resuming life consumed his fresh nerves, receiving an overwhelming amount of signals from his brain. Thought and memory also returned, but the agony was the now; it shut them out, commanded all attention for, as it seemed to Henry, far too long. And inevitably, the anguish began to fade, albeit slowly.

As his hollering died down, Walter snagged his wet hair and pulled his head back. Henry was blinded by the dull glow from above. He vaguely heard a sound all around him; the congregation had fallen to their knees.

"Holy Mother," the woman said up into the light, "we bring back from Your Realm the Receiver of Wisdom. As You have demanded, we sacrifice his vision of this world so that he may receive more of Your sacred tellings!"

Henry screamed as Walter ripped out his eyes.

* * *

Is it bad that I had a LOT of fun writing this? 

By the way, here's a question: In the game, we learn that Walter attended Pleasant River University. What the hell did he major in? And do you think he graduated?


	3. Chapter Two

**Disclaimer:** Don't own, so don't sue.

**Author's Note:** Alright, here's the next chapter. I hope it isn't OOC, especially in terms of Walter. (It's hard to write for crazy people. 8D) And I'm going to say right now, that although there's a bit of a slash warning in my summary, nothing... er... I'll say graphic or monumental is going to happen.

* * *

**CHAPTER TWO  
****Enucleation**

Oh, he would have been so grateful to be alive.

He woke up in darkness, but he could feel his familiar surroundings well enough. The buoyancy of the springs in the mattress he lay upon, the worn, warm blanket around his body. He knew it was the room, and he knew that something bad had happened. He was very familiar with it; he would slowly remember it like he always did.

He had dreamed, but he couldn't remember it.

He sat up. His headache was unbelievable. It focused at the front of his face where his eyes were, then struck out into his brain. He also felt a pain across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, but it was minor compared to inside his head so he didn't think much about it.

He felt too warm with the blanket around him and pushed it off, kicking and rumpling it to the end of the bed. It was the warmer months, as he could recall, so we wasn't sure why he'd been using it.

He slid to the end of the bed until his legs were hanging over the edge, intending to get up as usual. But the darkness was odd; he didn't move within it, it moved with him. He realized there was a cloth tied around his face, and that's why it was dark. It was incredibly tight and he could feel thick pads over his eyes. It was probably only making his headache worse. It certainly couldn't be good for his eyes; they must've been smashed into the sockets. He lifted a hand up to pull it off, and his fingers brushed his cheek. He winced at the pain and the cuts he felt over his flesh. He wondered what happened to him as he traced the line with his middle finger. His forefinger stumbled across a curved mark in his cheek further from his nose, and he traced that too, gingerly moving his fingers up under the blindfold. He considered the pattern in his mind, and his mind started yelling at him, echoing in the background at first, then louder and louder, until he could finally hear, "Oh, God, don't you remember! He cut into them too!" But his stupefied digits kept moving over his face to the crooked line on his nose, another curved line and straight line in his other cheek. And then he realized that it was backwards and reversed it.

He nearly stopped breathing. 21121. 21/21.

It couldn't be. Henry pulled the blindfold off his head so he could run to the bathroom mirror and be sure. Only he still couldn't see when the strip of cloth fell from his fingers and the thick pads fell off his face. The cool air crept into his eye sockets; it stung and he winced but it didn't feel right. He tried to blink, but he couldn't feel his eyelids. He raised his hands to tentatively examine his eyes, but when he prodded at this closed eyelids, the flimsy flaps gave way into two empty pits in his head.

Henry's hands shook as he pulled them away from his face; the pain resurged from disturbing his lids. There was the stickiness of mucus on his fingers. Gone. His eyes were gone. Holy Mother of God. He felt around the bed for the cloth, found it, and tried to slide it back over his head with still trembling hands. He could feel the two voids in his face. He felt sick. His head throbbed. The blindfold was too tight; he couldn't get it back on.

He remembered now. He let the strip of cloth fall away from his fingers and placed his hands over his mouth. Waking up in immense pain crawling all over him, trying to lash out at whatever was attacking him, but trapped by flimsy cloth. And then the cloth parted and light flooded his eyes and he was staring up into the light coming from above. The pain was still crawling and he was covered in blood, and some woman was shouting to God and then Walter Sullivan had grabbed his head and jammed his fingers into this eye sockets and riiiiiipped.

He couldn't remember anything after that. Not that he wanted to.

His eyes… His _eyes_.

He heard the door open and immediately jerked his head over at the sound. And, strangely and frighteningly, although he could not see, in his mind flashed a quick picture of Walter Sullivan stepping into the room. He was looking at him with that empty smile. Almost as quickly the image was gone. Henry scrambled to his feet, bumping into the chair by the desk. He nearly stumbled over it but managed to regain his footing and move around the chair and back into the window. He heard the shuffle of footsteps head toward him, and he reached out and felt for the desk chair. He grabbed it with both hands and desperately heaved it in the direction of the soft footfalls, but only heard a grunt and the chair clatter to the floor.

Henry gasped when Walter was suddenly upon him, standing right up close and snatching up the shorter man's wrists so he couldn't get away. He grimaced; Walter was even more terrifying now that he couldn't even see him.

"Don't upset yourself," Walter said.

Henry wasn't sure if he should respond, but a few moments passed in eerie silence. Then finally what Walter had said reverberated in his already pounding head. Don't upset himself? There was a rush of anger and Henry thrashed in the other man's grip. "You MOTHERFUCKER!" he hollered, trying to pull away, but Walter's hold was steadfast. "My goddamn eyes! You sick fucking bastards! What the hell!"

"Shhhh," Walter said, as if trying to calm a child. "It was necessary. Your form as was wasn't proper for you to fulfill your place."

"My place!" Henry screamed. "What fucking place…?"

"It will be explained to you later," replied the disembodied voice.

Later? Later? The absurd idea that it was pretty rude to rip out someone's eyes and not even tell them why crossed Henry's mind. "FUCK YOU!" he erupted. With a mighty yank he freed one of his wrists, then sent his fist flying to where he assumed Walter's face was. He guessed correctly; his knuckles mashed into a cheek. But then his arm was grabbed again and he grimaced, preparing for retaliation.

"Please don't do that," Walter requested, only sounding mildly annoyed.

"Wh… what is going on?" Henry demanded, suddenly feeling sick and fearful. And fucking blind.

"Mother Miranda will tell you. You need to calm down."

And the anger returned. "Calm! What the fuck do you mean by calm!" Henry snarled. "Jesus Christ, you _are_ fucking crazy!"

"Henry, stop--"

"Oh, yeah! Yeah, I'll just go along with your freaking cult bullshit! Why don't you slice off my goddamn tongue next, huh!" Henry was slowly getting hysterical. After all that had happened before, this was all too much for him to handle. Far too much. "You couldn't just leave me fucking _dead_, huh? It wasn't enough! Your fucking twisted ceremony isn't over yet! You fucking bastard! I swear to fucking God I'll kill myself I swear I will before you can try and use me again I'll slit my goddamn--"

Henry's breath caught in his throat when Walter suddenly wrapped his arms around him and pulled the other man close. As the murderer spoke, Henry could feel his breath over his own mouth. "It's okay," he whispered, in an apparent attempt to be reassuring. "I'm here to take care of you."

Henry said nothing. His mind, however, was yelling about how the tone of voice and the hand playing with his hair were very wrong. Take care of him? What the hell did that mean? He'd fucking killed him! "What?" Henry finally replied dumbly.

"I keep you and protect you," Walter said. Henry felt the other man's nose press his hair.

"WHAT?" was all Henry could blurt out. His brain finally ordered his body to take action, and he forced his hands up between them to Walter's chest and shoved him away. "What are you talking about!"

Walter didn't say anything, and Henry could feel the intense feeling of panic returning to his chest. None of this was making any sense. He should be dead. Walter wasn't supposed to be… nice to him. And he couldn't see. He couldn't fucking _see_.

Walter, unbeknownst to Henry, was staring at him rather nervously. He rebuked himself. He shouldn't have been so forward. Miranda had warned him about how confused Henry would be when he woke up. And judging by Henry's hostile posture and heavy breathing, it was probably best to leave. "I'll give you time to think," he said with his eerily calm voice. "I'll be back soon."

Henry didn't say anything back. He didn't even move until he heard the door close. He relaxed only slightly, and moved away from the window. Then he just stood there, not exactly sure what to do. He didn't have any crimson clues to lead him along at the moment. Shit, he couldn't even fucking read them if he did because his eyes were gone they were _gone_ and what was he going to _do_ but he had to calm down and he needed to think. He had to think rationally. He couldn't afford to fall apart. Dying once had already been bad enough. God, hearing Eileen's screams had been…

Eileen…

Henry groaned and clapped his mouth over his hand. Oh, God. Eileen. He hadn't saved her. He hadn't been fast enough. She'd walked right into that pool of churning blood right into the friggin' _grinder_ and he could hear it tearing _snapping_ her apart and--

Stop.

He had to stop. Stop and think.

Suddenly he was aware of the clothes he was wearing: a simple long-sleeved shirt, maybe cotton, and pajama pants of the same material. And the strange clothes only made his agitation worse. At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to be in a pair of his own jeans and one of his plain t-shirts. And thick white socks and his black boots would've been great too, as he noted that he was barefoot.

His foot nudged one of the eye pads that fallen from his face and to the carpet. He again was all too aware of how empty his head felt amidst the pulsing pain. He bent down and snatched up the pad, and then blindly felt around the carpet for its companion. He found it under the bed. The cloth lay on the comforter and he fumbled with the knot until it was untied. He tilted his head back and placed the pads over his eyes again, then tied the blindfold around his face to keep them on. It wasn't as tight as before, but even the lesser pressure somehow lent some comfort.

And, God, he needed it right now.

But he couldn't think about that. He had to think about the situation.

He had been dead. He was absolutely sure of that. He remembered returning Walter to mortal form by spearing that… that thing. And then simply pumping his body full of bullets with Richard's revolver. And Walter had died, had collapsed to the ground and reached up to nothing and called to his mother and then he was gone. Or so Henry thought. But at that moment he was gone enough. But something else was still around, something malicious and oppressive, just like the infestation in his apartment. It had…

His skin had split itself open, the rivulets streaming rivers of blood. Like invisible knives frolicking over his body. In the pain and the panic and the blood loss he had collapsed to the stone.

And as he lay, bleeding to death, he remembered seeing Walter move. He moved and sat up and all of his wounds were gone. And he looked over at Henry and saw him dying. And he simply smiled and crawled over to him. He stared down at him for a bit, before murmuring "Yes, Mother, the Final Sign." Walter removed a knife from his jacket and carved the numbers into his face as he died.

Henry had figured out too late what the candles were for. He hadn't collected nearly enough. The spirits collecting in his apartment, he realized now, were the growing powers of the Holy Mother. He hadn't subdued her enough. When her son failed, she had taken it upon herself to use what little she gained to complete the ritual.

It was evident that his last memories of sight (_don't think about it any more than that_) were of the end of his resurrection. So he assumed. He felt alive, that was for sure, and death couldn't feel anything like life. Could it? He had been able to see, he could hear, he could smell, he could taste, and he could certainly feel. Surely death would lack one or all of the senses, or somehow alter them. Or something.

God, he had no idea what he was talking to himself about. For all he knew being aware of death would be like… like… He didn't know. This wasn't getting him anywhere. And his head was still killing him. And, now that he thought about it, he felt… odd.

Well, of course he felt odd, he berated himself. His fucking eyes were gone! He'd never see anything again! Not his mother, not a sunset, not a photograph.

He just… He just couldn't think now. There was no point to it. How could he do anything about his situation if he couldn't see?

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

It was some time-- Henry guessed about an hour-- before Walter returned, and Henry's mood hadn't improved. He got another flash of the man in the blue coat entering the room, only this time he noticed that he had a glass and a bowl. A cloth was draped over the side of the bowl. And as before, the image was gone as soon as it came. It unnerved Henry, but he didn't ask about it. He would figure it out on his own.

There was a small clank as the bowl was set on the desk. Henry had stood up, tense and ready, ever since the man reentered the room, but all he could think to do when the other man grabbed his wrist was take a step back and try to pull away. But Walter didn't let go, though he did nothing more. And after a few moments of nothing more, Henry realized Walter was actually taking his pulse. Henry felt the urge to ask why, but said nothing. He just stood dumbly.

Walter made a noise of approval. Henry supposed he should feel glad that his heart rate seemed fine. It would be nice to feel glad about anything. Then Walter opened his hand and pressed something large and cold and round into his palm. Henry closed his fingers around the glass, but made no move to raise it to his mouth.

"Drink," Walter prodded.

Henry did no such thing. Who knew what the hell was in it!

"It's water," Walter assured him.

Yeah. Sure. Water.

"Henry." It was clearly a warning. And when Henry didn't take it, Walter took away the glass. Then one of his hands was around Henry's mouth, squeezing his cheeks and pressing into his jaw, and to avert the pain Henry opened his mouth. Walter poured the water into Henry's mouth while the blind man tried to free his face with both hands. He was unsuccessful, and after some sputtering and choking finally started to swallow what in fact did taste like water. Just as Henry was thinking about how air was necessary for survival, Walter let go and the stream of water stopped. Henry swallowed what was left in his mouth and then doubled over, coughing to the floor. When he righted himself again, Walter pressed the glass back into his hand. "Drink."

Henry finished the glass. Walter took it away. Then the taller man sighed and Henry felt his jacket sleeve swipe at the wetness on his chin and the front of his shirt. It disturbingly reminded him of how his mother would clean his face when he was a kid; he pulled away.

Henry was suddenly seized by the shoulders and he was forced to sit on the bed. He made a noise of protest that was cut off by a yell when he felt Walter's fingertips slip under the cloth around his head.

"Get off me!" Henry finally snapped, grabbing Walter's hand and shoving it away before he could pull the blindfold off.

Walter showed little reaction in his voice. "I have to clean your face," he explained calmly, reaching for the gauze blindfold again.

Henry swung his fist, and though he missed he heard Walter step back. "I swear to fucking God you better get the FUCK away from me!" he growled.

"If it's not clean," Walter said, "it will become infected."

"Oh, an infection?" Henry laughed. "If you're so worried about an infection, maybe you shoulda left my fucking eyeballs where they were!"

"An infection will only make things worse."

"Worse?" Henry repeated with a bitter laugh. How the hell could things be worse than this?

"An infection will hurt more. It can damage tissue. We might have to remove something else." Something about his tone sounded like he was reciting. Henry realized that everything that Walter was doing was because someone had told him to.

Regardless, he certainly didn't want anything more ripped out of his body. Gritting his teeth, Henry let him take it off. His face felt cold, and then some warmth when a cloth was carefully brought to his face. It was silent as Walter cleaned above his cheeks and the eyelids over his empty sockets. The sensation was, suffice to say, disturbing. And painful. His eyelids must have been swollen, bruised. Henry sat tensely on the bed, his hands clutching the comforter.

It would get infected, huh? Then he couldn't be dead. So he must be alive, right?

But… he felt odd. Not an oddness that had anything to do with his very permanent blindness. It was different. Something else was missing.

"Done," Walter said, almost happily.

Henry expected the blindfold to be replaced, but he could hear Walter leaving. "W-wait!" he sputtered.

"Hm?"

"Aren't you gonna… wrap my head again or anything?"

"Is that what you want?"

Without the softness over where his eyes used to be, he felt sickeningly vulnerable. But it was still odd to make a request from Walter. ".. Yes."

Another moment passed and then Henry's head was tilted back and the pads placed over his eyes. The strip of cloth was placed carefully over the pads, and then he could feel Walter's arms on either side of his head as the other man wound the cloth's ends together so that the blindfold was as tight as before. The knot at the back of Henry's head was completed. "Alright," Walter said softly.

Henry almost reflexively said thank you, but he quickly remembered the situation he was in and only grunted. Then he made a little surprised noise when Walter took hold of his chin and lifted his head up. At first he assumed the other man was just making sure the blindfold was on correctly, but one moment too many passed, and then another, and then another.

"What?" Henry said finally, pulling out of his slight grip. "Huh?" The second syllable came when he felt and heard Walter move towards him. Shock lent him no sound at all when he felt long hair brush against his face and lips press to his cheek. And then the presence was gone and he heard footsteps moving to the door.

"Tomorrow begin your lessons," Walter said over the sound of the door swinging open.

"Wh… I…" Henry suddenly got to his feet and precariously made his way across the room to the door. "Hold the fuck on!" he snapped before gracefully bumping into the man he was following. Walter grabbed his arm before the shorter man fell down, but once he was back on balance Henry wrenched his arm away. "First of all," he started, shaking his finger in what he hoped was the direction of Walter's face, "don't… don't EVER… do that again!"

"Do what?"

Henry was slack-jawed at the response, but he recovered and sputtered out, "You know what!"

"I was only showing my affection."

They were not the words Henry wanted to hear. "I don't want your damn affection!" he yelled. The panging in his skull worsened at the exclamation, and he pressed his hand against his head.

"I will ask Mother Miranda if she has something for your headache tomorrow."

"Miranda?" Henry repeated, keeping his voice low for his brain's sake.

"She is Head Priestess of The Order." He also kept his volume down. "She will also explain things to you."

"Oh, won't that be nice," Henry muttered sarcastically. Miranda… She must have been the one who told Walter how to take care of him. He couldn't really imagine Walter of all people knowing how to assist in healing someone.

"Please get some rest. I'll be here if you need anything. Good night, Henry." And the door was closed.

It was night? It was somehow nice to know what time it was. And even though he had only been awake for a short period of time, Henry realized that he was tired again. Maybe it was from, well, being brought back from the dead. Or maybe it was from all the yelling. Henry thought back to everything he had screamed at Walter. He wasn't used to being so angry. Of course, he had never been terrorized as a cult sacrifice before, and then resurrected for who the hell knew what. God, he was tired.

But the last thing he wanted to do was go to sleep.

'I'll be here if you need anything,' eh? What he needed was… alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol. He thought of that last bottle of white wine, smashed over some undead creature's head. He couldn't remember which at the moment, but what a waste.

So all he knew was that he was alive, and the Silent Hill cult-- The Order-- wanted something with him. So he was still in deep shit, just as before he had died. And all he could do was wait to see what this Miranda had to say to him, because he certainly wasn't going fucking anywhere, at least not now.

Henry slipped back into the bed. He laid there, unmoving and desperately trying not to think, for over an hour before sleep finally claimed him.

He dreamed of a soothing red room and arms wrapped comfortingly around him. And a low female voice chanting in his ear, "My Receiver of Wisdom."

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Weeee. Hopefully the next chapter will be out soon. Review and let me know what you think, especially if you didnt like it. 


	4. Chapter Three

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any Silent Hills or their characters.

**Author's Note:** Nothing like getting your wisdom teeth removed to give you some time to write. When you're not sleeping from the percoset, anyway. (I look like a chipmunk!) In this chapter, we have more emotionally rampant Henry! Yay! Next chapter is nearly done, so hopefully that shall also be up soon.

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**CHAPTER THREE  
Regeneration**

Obviously, when Henry woke up again he was hoping that it was all a dream, that he would open his eyes and _they would fucking be there_.

But if luck was a lady, she was a goddamn bitch.

Henry sat up, placing his hands on either side of his head and attempting to beg the pain to go away. He felt the blindfold under his palms and immediately thought of how it wrapped around his eyeless sockets.

But he couldn't break down. Not now. He had to figure out what to do.

They still needed him. The 21 Sacraments had been completed, but they still needed him. And they were people, human, not the God who was supposed to have descended. If the God were there, in the realm of existence in which Henry had spent nearly three decades, Henry himself should be unnecessary. But he had been revived; he _was_ necessary in some facet. The question now, was as what?

Whatever it was, it certainly wasn't good.

So his primary objective, he supposed, was to get away from Walter and whoever else was in the apartment complex. Easier said than done, especially when blind. He'd have to make it to the street and rely on helpful bystanders to call the police. Or a swat team. Or maybe the fucking army.

He slid off the bed and stood. For a moment he deliberated precisely what to do, trying to think beneath or over the thunder in his head. Then, cautiously he made his way to the door, holding his hands out in front of him so as not to bump or stumble. He opened the door slowly, trying not to make noise. But he instantly reminded himself how stupid he was. Walter wasn't the blind one; the psycho could be sitting out in the living room at that very moment, watching Henry make a fool of himself as he attempted to escape unnoticed. Of course, if he wasn't there, he'd have a better shot.

Clearing his voice, Henry awkwardly called out, "Walter?" His voice rang around in his head and he winced. There was no answer. He moved out into the hallway and turned right, working from memory to get around and using the rough walls as an additional guide. He reached the corner and faced the living room. "Hello?" he asked the darkness. No answer. He tried again. "Anyone here?" Still silence. He listened hard, but heard not a breath. Still and silent as death. He immediately berated himself for making the comparison.

He ventured away from the wall and made his way to the left. He walked forward, hands straight out, until his palms encountered wood. He tried the knob, and it turned all the way, but the front door was somehow locked from the outside, as expected. Henry tried to comfort himself by acknowledging that he felt no chains on the door. Bracing himself, Henry rammed his shoulder into the door. There was a loud bang, but the door didn't give way. He only succeeded in making his headache worse. Trying to ignore the throbbing, Henry tried again and again, using more force each time, but the door was unaffected. He turned around and leaned against the door, waiting for the ache in his skull to lessen before contemplating further action.

He had to get out, but he would have to wait until Walter came back and unlocked the door. In such case, he would need a weapon.

Henry slowly headed to the kitchen, wondering if all his stuff was still in the apartment.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Walter opened the door to the apartment and closed it behind him. He had met with Mother Miranda to discuss Henry. Their meeting had been too long, in his opinion. Unless he was doing important work for Mother, any time away from Her or Henry ate away at his patience. Miranda had given him the same speech a few times before on how he needed to take care of Henry. He supposed he could tolerate it, however, since she was just concerned with the Receiver of Wisdom, not to mention she was also working for Mother's benefit.

Once the Realization was complete, maybe then…

There was a small noise of surprise. Walter turned away from the door and cocked his head curiously. Henry was just standing there in the living room, just beyond the kitchen counter. The shorter man faced him with forced even breaths. Walter sighed. Henry was afraid of him. He didn't want Henry to be afraid of him.

"Did you sleep well?"

Henry didn't answer, but he did have that incredulous expression on his face. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, standing with both his arms behind his back. Walter thought nothing of it. He kept talking.

"The transition will be difficult, but as I said, it was necessary. Soon you will understand."

Still no reply. Henry's adam's apple bobbed up and down when he swallowed hard.

"Is something wrong?" Walter said, walking over to his charge.

Henry didn't say anything. Waited for Walter to approach him. He figured that if Walter was supposed to protect him now, he'd be concerned by the silence. And he was right. Walter was walking over, a couple feet away, now inches away.

Henry successfully grabbed Walter's collar, then whipped the knife out from behind his back and stabbed it into Walter's abdomen. The tall blonde made a noise of surprise and Henry's haggard brain sang in triumph as he twisted the knife. But then Walter grabbed Henry's hand, still wrapped around the knife handle, and pulled the blade out of his body. The adrenaline and anger fell back beneath the fear again.

"What were you going to do if this worked?" There was a trace of mockery in it, but it was mostly just an incredulous question that Henry couldn't answer. Walter frowned and shook his head. "These outbursts aren't going to help anything."

Henry's hands were shaking. It was as before, wasn't it? He could shoot, stab, and bludgeon Walter all he liked and he would just keep coming. How could he have expected anything else? It was just like a horror movie, where the killer just kept coming back to life and only something as extreme as decapitation could be a plausible end.

Unexpectedly, Walter held Henry's palm out, and the brunette felt something pointy touch his skin. The knife, he realized wildly, before Walter shoved it straight through his hand. Henry screamed at the slicing pain and tried to pull away, but Walter held his wrist tightly and withdrew the blade. There was a small click of the knife being set down on the counter under Henry's noises of panic, and then Walter grabbed his other hand.

"Shhhh, shhhh…" he coaxed, placing Henry's fingers over the bleeding wound. "Wait and feel."

Henry felt his skin pull and move beneath his fingers. Within his palm the regeneration of skin was prickly and strange. In moments it appeared as if the knife never touched him, though the stinging pain remained.

"Mother protects us," Walter said, in something like a cheerful tone.

Henry could only stand there in shock, his wrist still held captive in Walter's grip. So he couldn't die either?

As if hearing his thoughts, Walter moved his face close to the other man's. The hand not holding Henry's wrist came up and ran its fingers through the brown hair. "You are very important."

Henry instantly recoiled, stumbling and nearly falling to the carpet. But he stayed upright, and hissed, "Don't fucking touch me."

The awkward silence (as if there could be any other kind) spanned only a few seconds before Walter spoke.

"What do you want to eat?"

Henry clenched his fists. Food? He was offering him _food_? "I'm not eating anything," he growled.

A moment of silence, then decidedly, "I'm going to get you something to eat."

"I said I don't fucking want anything!" Henry snapped, wishing he had something to throw.

"I'll be right back." The front door opened and closed before the brunette man could throw himself into a tirade.

Alone again, Henry berated himself. So stupid. Obviously, even if Walter did have an actual body this time, he'd have some sort of supernatural abilities. He wasn't sure what to think of the fact that he had similar protection, or that it came from 'Mommy.'

Why was he necessary? Was she not in power like he had assumed she would be through his journey through the holes? Had something gone wrong? Something was awry, which meant there was still a chance to stop all this, to at least deter it. If he could just…

Again came the daunting fact that he couldn't see. He thought of everything he had gone through just to get to this point. There was no way in hell he could do it all again when blind.

But then there were those odd points where he could see, very briefly, in a flash in his head. It had happened again when Walter had returned to the apartment; he had seen an image of the man in the blue coat slipping inside. What the hell were they? Torture from the Holy Bitch, to remind him that she had ordered his eyes taken away, that she and her crazed followers had him under their control? That they would continue to exploit him however they liked?

And how could he stop them? Hell, he couldn't even kill himself, as Walter had just demonstrated.

Again he was aware of that strange empty feeling from the day before. He had attributed it to his missing eyes, but now he knew it had nothing to do with that. There was something else missing. Something was gone. Something that was very important, he suddenly knew, and that knowledge was making the panic rise again.

Henry took in a shuddering breath and refused to cry. He didn't even know if he was capable of crying anymore, but he wouldn't. He had to stay rational. Losing it wouldn't do anything to help him. He may have been trapped in the godforsaken room again under the watch of his murderer, and he may have been blind for the rest of his fucking existence, but…

But…

The silence was intense in his darkness. Desperately working from memory, Henry cautiously reached out and managed to find one of the high stools by the kitchen counter. He slid himself onto it and folded his arms onto the counter. He lowered his head into his arms and listened to nothing.

And then his voice choked: "Mom…"

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

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Just wanna take a moment and thank my dear reviewers. It's something I often forget to do. (Yes, shame on me!) So... thanks! And always remember to be completely honest with me. 

I promise that more will be explained soon! (I'm even confusing the hell out of myself with this thing. Yikes.) In a couple chapters, there will be something of an overview of how the cult works based on the victim files and the Crimson Tome that were pretty much released on in Japanese. You can read translations at translatedmemories dot com. I would put the actual URL, but the document manager doesn't like it. Bah.


	5. Chapter Four

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything and you know it! (Er, 'cept the original characters and the plot and junk...)

**Author's Note:** I'm updating again! Mwa hahahahaha!

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**CHAPTER FOUR  
****Inspection**

But he didn't cry, not then.

The instant he had called for his mother, he had shaken himself. This was exactly what The Order would like, for him to break down and give up. Well, there was no way. He should be grateful that he had another chance. Maybe he couldn't do much, but he could do something. He just needed to get out to the street. He would find a way.

There was a sudden throb in his head and he gritted his teeth. The Holy Mother protected him? Then why was he still aching from his "surgery?" Another example of control over him, perhaps?

Henry took in a deep breath. He needed to be in control, or at least as much as he could get in his situation. First thing: he needed to do a more thorough check of the apartment than when he had looked for the knife.

Everything in the living room was positioned the same. The couch, the chair, the table, the television, the bookshelf-- everything. He expected that the cult didn't want to disturb it as a "holy place" or some bullshit like that. The books were still in place, as was his radio, though when he experimentally tried to turn it on, he didn't hear anything but static. He had expected it, but it still disappointed him.

He pulled at the windows, but they were sealed as before. He put a hand up against the glass, brought back the opposite fist to pound on it, but he stopped. There was a layer of… of something over the glass, rough and bumpy. It made him think of how the walls started to decay. Henry realized that he'd been thinking the apartment was the dingy white one he'd lived in for two years. But it was-- of course—the ruddy, spirit-infested version. He backed away from the window, suddenly wary, but did not hear the moans and groans and screams of torsos trying to pull themselves through the plaster.

Maybe that was why he still had a headache? From the infestation of spirits? But, no, he could feel the pain emanating from the front of his face, behind where his eyes used to be. It was not like before, where the headache felt like it consumed his whole brain. Henry frowned. He would think about it later; he wanted to make sure he had the apartment layout right in his head before Walter came back.

He went through the kitchen again. Utensils (including his cooking knives) remained with pots and pans and his scale. All the cleaning supplies were in the cabinets along with whatever food hadn't been eaten while he'd been trapped inside the apartment for the first time. He assumed that whatever was left was no good for consumption. Experimentally, Henry turned on the faucet. It ran, but when he put his fingers under the flow, whatever was coming out was definitely thicker than water. He wiped his hand off on his pants and moved on. The refrigerator was empty (to his relief), and all the freezer had was empty ice trays and an old ice pack. Henry snatched up the cold pack and held it to his face, suddenly extremely happy that, despite everything, the electricity still worked.

With now only one hand to use for guidance, Henry moved to the laundry room door. Remembering that it was the last place he had seen the hole, he swallowed hard before turning the knob. But it didn't turn. Henry rattled the knob once more before accepting that it was locked. He expected it would be as impassable as the front door, so he moved on to the hallway.

He tried the bathroom first, but it was locked also. He turned to go to the bedroom, but then remembered. The other room. The one he had revealed with the pickaxe. The one with Walter's corpse. Henry hesitated, then gingerly reached out.

Henry expected to find the ragged hole he'd knocked out with the Pickaxe of Hope, but his hands found a smooth doorway, arced at the top. He stepped into the back room and reached for the shelf he remembered being on this left, but that wasn't there either. He nearly lost his balance, but caught himself on the wall. He immediately recoiled and almost dropped the ice pack. The infestation felt worse in here, like the hidden room had been entirely gutted and scabbed over.

Cringing, he placed his hand against the surface and carefully moved forward along the wall. His thighs bumped into a table. Henry examined it with is free hand, and felt objects that he remembered being there the first time he'd set foot in the room: the book, the goblet, some candles. He moved around the table until he came across the second one. The large sword-like weapon was gone. There were only what felt like more books and candles. Continuing around, Henry carefully stepped across the floor, not wanting to stumble in the strange, liquid hole that he had gone through before. He found the wall again, and moved within the corner, reaching out to see if the refrigerator was still there. He felt nothing but space as he moved along the wall and the other corner. He wondered if the hole was there at all. He gingerly moved forward into the center of the room, slid one step at all time, lest he fall in if it was still there.

Something made him stop. Some odd sensation had spread over him. The strange feeling was strung from his center and flowed from him, tugging downwards. He faintly heard the ice pack thud to the ground when it slid out from beneath his hand. He swayed forward, but he only felt suddenly tired, serene.

Something snagged the back of his shirt and Henry was pulled away from the pit he'd nearly fallen into. His senses came back to him. His heart took a moment to settle in his chest, but resumed its fast beat when he heard Walter say, "You shouldn't be wandering by yourself."

Henry tried to think of something to say, but Walter was leading him out of the changed room and back into the core of the apartment. Walter sat him down at the counter around the kitchen area. There was a clank as a plate was set in front of him. "Eat."

Henry realized that he was starving. But he made no move to touch the plate.

"It's fine."

Henry snorted. "You eat it then."

Walter's voice was confused. "I don't need to eat."

If Henry had eyes, he would have stared at him. But he didn't, so he just sat there. Didn't need to eat? Must be nice. "I'm not eating it."

Walter exhaled sharply. "Don't be difficult."

Henry folded his arms, determined to be as difficult as possible.

"Henry."

The tone made the brunette change his mind. It was the same tone as the day before when Walter had poured the water down his throat. Henry decided he would rather not repeat the experience, so he reached for whatever he had been served.

It was a sandwich. Henry took a small bite, trying not to show how hungry he was. He was sure Walter was watching him. He chewed slowly. Ham and cheese on white bread with mustard. No poison as far as he could tell, which was nice because ham and cheese was his favorite. He didn't want to ponder the coincidence.

"After you're finished, we'll meet with Mother Miranda," Walter said. He seemed happy that Henry was eating. There was the sound of glass on wood. "Water."

Henry swallowed the clump of sandwich, then raised his head towards the other man. "Um… It's not from the tap… right?"

"Hm? Of course not."

Thank God. Henry took a small sip and was relieved that it was, again, just water. He slowly finished eating and drinking, keeping his head down and trying to ignore the strong feeling that the other man was watching him the entire time.

"I have a pair of sandals for you," Walter said when Henry was done.

That's right; he was barefoot.

"Do you want me to put them on for you?"

Henry could help but snort. "Uh, no. That's fine. Just… give them to me." He held out his hand. The sandals were placed in his palm, and with little trouble he put them on.

Before they left, Walter cleaned Henry's face again. And as he did, Henry only became more confused. Why had the Holy Mother healed the cut on his hand from yesterday, but it was still necessary for Walter to clean his face to prevent infection? He thought about asking, but decided he would only if it was necessary. He didn't want to be fed any lies, and he wasn't sure if he would like any answer he got in the first place.

Once finished, Walter took him by the arm and Henry got up off the stool. He tried to remain calm, play obedience. If he was lucky, there might be some point where he could break away from Walter and make a run for it. If the ritual had been to bring the spirits and the Holy Mother into the actual reality, then the normal layout of the apartments should still hold true. Perhaps he would be able to make it outside? Granted, that would require an incredible amount of luck, but at the moment that was all he had.

When they stepped out the front door and into the hallway, Henry noticed that there was something off right away. Out in the hallway, a loud reverberating hum echoed from their left. The hall felt much smaller than it should have, and smelled damp and moldy. Not familiar at all, not even as the bloodied version of the Heights. Walter led him to the right, and as they walked, Henry felt stone beneath his feet rather than tile. And then their pace slowed, and Walter was helping him up a narrow staircase. _Up_ a staircase? From the third floor?

Henry realized that he, in fact, had no idea where he was.

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oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Poor confuzzled Henry. Writing the interaction between him and Walter is so much fun. I gotta say that my favorite part so far is when Henry's all, "I'm not hungry! Grr!"and Walter's just "I'm gonna get you some food. (smile)"

Er, anywho, in hindsight, I probably shoulda just combined this chapter and the previous one. Oh, well. Chapter Five is looking to be pretty long. Has a lot of explanation. Henry finally gets some answers! Yay!


	6. Chapter Five

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any SH incarnations or characters, but I do own everything else. 8D Thank ya.

**Author's Note:** After writing this… my head hurts. Now I know how Henry feels. Too much official info to blend with made-up info. If you see any errors, let me know, and I'll fix it if necessary, probably when I get back from Otakon (booyah!). As for other things, I've been capitalizing the t in The Order because it seemed right at the time, though it's not convention. But now it's really bothering me, so I ain't gonna no more.

Oh, and thank you for your kind and/or constructive reviews. They make me happy. (Saddened Soul, your latest made me laugh out loud.)

Anywho, this chapter just got longer and longer (14 and a half pages in Word), so I hope it's a good long read to make up for the wait.

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**CHAPTER FIVE  
****Proselytization**

The Order had survived through much during its existence in Silent Hill. Whatever trials were thrown at it, it always managed to press on, though it always ended up a bit worse for the wear. With Walter's success, however, the remaining members of the old faith felt that their luck was changing.

As it stood now, the Order was divided into three sects.

The youngest was the Valtiel Sect, created by a man named Jimmy Stone, who established himself its head priest. The purpose of this sect was to mediate between the two original divisions of the old religion, though one can imagine that the power over the entire congregation was very attractive to Stone. The Valtiel Sect was deemed to be the closest to God of all three sects, as the members worshipped the angel Valtiel, God's Attendant, whose utmost purpose was to see that god made Her way back to the world She had created. Next to praying and other common acts of worship, those of this denomination also acted as executioners for the Order to ensure that their plans were not disrupted.

The second faction of the cult was the Holy Mother Sect. Its main purpose at conception was to maintain and bring orphans into Wish House, and also to convert outsiders. Wish House had been important since its construction on the eastern side of Toluca Lake, just beyond the borders of Silent Hill. It was difficult to convert believers when they were older, but children were infinitely susceptible to any influence. It was their duty to supply the proper one. George Rosten was the Head Priest of this sect, as well as a member of the Valtiel sect and the right-hand man of Stone. Stone intended to keep the other sects in check with the close assistance of his good friend.

The final sect was the Saint Ladies Sect, one of the original sects alongside the Holy Mother Sect. It had only female cultists for worshipping the three saints: Saint Alessa, Saint Jennifer, and Saint Nicholas. The head of this sect was Priestess Rosemary Collins, Stone's cousin who obviously never challenged him, though her sect was the most passive of the three. The Ladies worshipped as well as studied and transcribed religious texts day in and day out. At some points in the Order's history, a Lady would claim to be inspired by God and begin a brand new volume of dogma. This did not always have favorable consequences. The Ladies also maintained a small garden of White Claudia, a holy plant used purely for religious purposes. If one were to ask about the involvement of the flower in the Silent Hill drug problem of years ago, a Lady would not answer.

The three factions tried to work together to revive God, but even brought together under one leader they could find little solidarity. Two methods had been discovered at recalling God to their forsaken realm. The first involved restoring God in a chosen girl's womb. The second was the Descent of the Holy Mother: the Twenty-One Sacraments, a ritual that required twenty-one sacrifices to be performed by a Conjurer who would be a sacrifice himself. The congregation was divided on which was the proper way.

Stone conferred with Rosten and another cult elder, Dahlia Gillespie, and they decided that they would try both. A girl would be chosen to be impregnated with God, and the Twenty-One Sacraments would be a sort of back-up plan. Of course, they didn't put it that way, as it sounded so undignified and unsure.

Gillespie, after a number of secret rituals that were undoubtedly not only for fertility, became pregnant. Once born, the baby was named Alessa, and held in high esteem as the future Mother of God.

The first plan failed. The girl, though powerful, was so unwilling to accept her destiny that she split her own soul in two to avoid giving birth to the God. Even when the child who housed the second part of her soul was found, an outsider, a man named Harry Mason, foiled the plan again. Alessa created herself another infant body and handed herself over to him, and he stole her away from the Order's intentions.

Having lost not only the Mother of God (or Holy Mother), but one of their most active members (Gillespie) and one of their most influential supporters (Doctor Michael Kaufmann), the Order was adrift for a number of years. The two missing persons (presumed dead) as well as the death of an Alchemilla Hospital nurse (presumed murdered), in combination with the discovery of a drug ring, led to a large-scale investigation that lasted for years and forced the cult underground to maintain their activities in secrecy. Not even the distraction of a sudden surge of strange, supernatural occurrences in Silent Hill gave them relief. Having little to hope for, some members began to talk of trying to revive God again. Most looked to the alternate plan, the Twenty-One Sacraments, but some agreed with a dissenter, Claudia Wolf.

Wolf was convinced that the only proper way to revive God was through birth, through the chosen Holy Mother, Alessa. Alessa would need to be found in her new form, and by nurturing her with the hate of the corrupt world, God would be born to destroy the Nation of Sin and open the Gates of Paradise.

But Wolf failed. Alessa did not want to come back. As Heather Mason, the former Holy Mother rejected her duty. Wolf died along with her dream of finally seeing God's Rebirth, predicted with her very own Sight even when she was a child and friend of Alessa.

But all the while, the 'Plan B," as it could unceremoniously be called, was moving along. But it was also doomed to corruption.

Decades ago, a few years before Alessa was even born, a baby was brought into Wish House. He had been abandoned by his parents in an apartment complex in Ashfield, a city about a day's drive away from Silent Hill. The orphanage in Ashfield that had originally taken him in was overcrowded, and a traveling cult member proposed that the newborn, along with a number of other children, be transferred to the orphanage in Silent Hill instead. The newborn boy was given the name Walter Sullivan, and as he grew older, Rosten chose him as a special student. This would turn out to be a mistake.

Walter had been selected to be the Conjurer of the Twenty-One Sacraments. It was important to choose a child. It was easier to compel a child to kill other people. Children are easier to mold than adults, who have had morals and reservations since they were young. To encourage him to do well in his training under Rosten, Gillespie had told the boy that his mother remained in Ashfield, in the very same apartment in which he had been found as a boy. If he did well with what Rosten taught him, he would be able to see his mother again.

But Walter was young, and easily confused. He began to believe that what Rosten was teaching him would be what would allow him to see his mother, not that being able to see her was a reward for doing well. And he was also impatient. He decided to try and see his mother himself, and whenever he could sneak away he would make the long trip to South Ashfield and visit Room 302. But there was a man living in the room, and not able to understand that he had been lied to, the boy started to believe that it was the actual apartment that had birthed him. He developed an obsession with the room that would last the rest of his life and thereafter.

His preoccupation did not go unnoticed, but the Order's elders decided that as long as it encouraged the boy to follow instructions, they could look past it. In his late teens, however, Walter started to question the plan for which he was being prepared. He still believed the world was in ruin, and had a great dislike for nonbelievers. But just as Claudia Wolf had known she would be punished by God for her efforts to nurture hate in Heather Mason, the more peaceful teachings had still affected Walter when he was a young boy, and he simply did not feel right about performing the ritual. When he was nineteen, Walter left Wish House and went off to college in Pleasant River. Stone and Rosten were angry, but the Order was still suffering rough times and they were too busy trying to keep their operations under wraps.

It was years later that they decided that it was time to begin the Descent of the Holy Mother, but they knew that they were going to need something powerful to hold influence over their chosen Conjurer. Stone and Rosten conferred, and agreed that divine intervention was necessary. Rosten got Walter to meet with him, and performed an old ritual to introduce the Angel Valtiel into Walter's subconscious. And just like that, it was very clear to the young man what had to be done.

But Walter's mother was much more important to him than God. Stone and Rosten hadn't realized this. And so it was a surprise to them how the ritual known as The Descent of the Holy Mother: the Twenty-One Sacraments began. Jimmy Stone was the first victim. He was shot in the back of the head when visiting Wish House. George Rosten was found dead only a few days later. His body was in an altar beneath the infamous orphanage; as the sixth victim, he'd been bludgeoned to death with an iron pipe. Ten days after Stone's murder, Walter Sullivan was apprehended by police. He had been connected to the murders of siblings Billy and Miriam Locane, but before authorities could officially recognize him as responsible for eight other murders (including those of Stone and Rosten), Sullivan killed himself in his jail cell.

The loss of the Stone and Rosten altered the hierarchy of the Order. The Valtiel Sect's influence fell away, leaving the cult without direction and free for anyone to take up the leadership post. Toby Archbolt, a priest in the Holy Mother sect, took this opportunity to make his faction more powerful than the other two. He used some of the money he made from a small drug operation to begin a sightseeing business in Silent Hill, which attracted an odd combination of tranquility-seekers and those interested in the occult. Now with even more finances, Archbolt not only made the Holy Mother sect the head of the Order, but he managed to make connections in the political world. Using his influence, he reopened Wish House (which had floundered after police investigations into Stone's and Rosten's deaths) and got elected to the Ashfield City Council. This position made it easier for his sect to distribute drugs and make money from a high populous that didn't exist in Silent Hill. The only possible challenge against Archbolt's authority in the Order was a young priest named Vincent, who also managed to raise great funds to keep the religion alive, mostly from members themselves. But the younger member (who would be killed a number of years later by Wolf) showed more greed for money than power, so Archbolt had no need to worry.

But then he, too, became a victim, eight years after Stone and Rosten as Walter continued the ritual from beyond the grave. Once again the Order was left without a leader. And that is when Miranda took up the post.

Granted, she could not do much. She did not have the political clout that Archbolt had swindled. But she had confidence and the kind of motherly attitude that made others uncomfortable, and many other upper members respected her. She was only opposed once, and that member disappeared not long after. When Wish House was shut down again, she took the attendants and the children and disappeared before the authorities could take them into custody. From hiding, she sent out more instructions.

Joseph Schreiber's exposé was what had brought Wish House under close scrutiny once more and shut them down the second time. Angry at the unwanted attention, Miranda had been ready to send out the order for one of the men of the Valtiel Sect to take care of him. But around the time two murder victims were discovered, with 13121 and 14121 carved respectively into their bodies, the journalist vanished. Years later, having known the coincidence of Schreiber living in 302 in South Ashfield Heights, Miranda would suppose that if his body were to be found, it would be marked as 15121.

The Third Revelation finally occurred ten years after Walter began the bloody ritual. Sacraments sixteen through twenty-one (Temptation, Source, Watchfulness, Chaos, the Mother Reborn, and the Receiver of Wisdom) were severed from the bonds of the flesh. The Holy Mother was brought back to the Order's realm of existence. When word reached the members that bodies had been discovered, and that the numbers on them reached 21121, they rejoiced. Yet no Paradise arrived, and even through gyromancy, members of the Order received no answers. And so, only a few days after the completion of the ritual, Miranda traveled to South Ashfield.

There had been strange reports about the apartment complex where victims nineteen through twenty-one had been accosted. The remaining tenants been sent to the hospital for strange heart pains and died the next day. The superintendent and investigating police officers died mysteriously, though rumors said they all suffered from sudden heart attacks. Other people who entered the building were also befallen with fatal heart complications. It did not take Miranda much thought to surmise where she would need to go, and she was confident that her faith in the God who must have been brought into the old building would keep her alive. It did; she survived the encounter in the apartment.

After gaining Walter's trust, Miranda set about arranging for the Realization of the Holy Mother. She moved herself and other members of the Holy Mother Sect back into Silent Hill. Silent Hill was the Origin, the Holy Ground; there was no better place to perform the process. It was easy to return unabated since the town had been deserted over a month earlier. Camp Nebi was located on the western side of Toluca Lake. It was a good place, Miranda felt, to house the group, and had docks and boats within range of the island on the lake. That island was where they carried out Walter's only instruction: resurrect the Final Sign to prepare for the Mother's empowerment.

The initial ritual, the Descent of the Holy Mother, had turned South Ashfield into something like Silent Hill. Unexplained occurrences-- like the strange cardiovascular problems of the tenants of South Ashfield Heights after its four murders-- occurred sporadically all over the city. Some simply brushed it off, believing most of the stories to be, well, just stories created by a populous panicked and baffled by an unexplained series of murders.

Silent Hill had, as some flabbergasted residents put it on evening news stations, "gone insane." Those who had remained in the town even after the surge of seemingly unnatural incidents that began seven years ago were pushed out by what could only be described as a force. A force that not only blanketed the town in more fog than usual, but shattered windows, opened up chasms, induced people into intense emotional and mental stupors, and-- most unusually-- set upon the town a large number of black cats while all other animals, including family pets, escaped the town starting on the night of the murders in South Ashfield and Silent Hill Woods.

The state government, having no idea what was going on, could only come up with jumbled explanations while they attempted to get to the bottom of the sudden surge of phenomenon. It would have helped if, like with South Ashfield Heights, all of their investigators didn't die mysteriously. It very quickly became difficult to find people willing to even just patrol the borders of the town to make sure no one else entered and was afflicted.

So with no one to question the Order, Miranda had slipped her sect back onto holy ground. She had brought all the Wish House children as well. It was important for them to see this Grand Event, to solidify their faith and let them, as well as the adults, known that Paradise would soon be upon them.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Walter and Henry reached the head of the stairs, and the taller of the two led the way down a hall. Henry simply followed, too confused by how the apartment was definitely not where it should be to even think to try and break away. They did not walk far when Walter stopped and there was the sound of a door opening. Walter gently nudged the dark-haired man into the room and followed after him.

"Hello, Henry," a woman said.

Henry immediately recognized her voice. The last time he'd heard it, she'd been calling out to God before Walter's fingers slipped into his head and around his eyes. He made a small noise when Walter suddenly pushed him down into a chair.

"I am Mother Miranda. We have much to discuss," she said.

Henry's lips twisted into a sneer. "I'll say!" he snapped. "What the hell is going on?"

"Such anger." Her voice was calm, but there was an obvious amusement to it. "Please try to be dignified. It is only befitting of the Receiver of Wisdom."

Henry frowned at the title. "I am not your receiver of anything."

"God would say differently."

"Your 'God' is the fucking Devil."

"Please restrain from using such harsh words," Miranda requested. By her voice, she was obviously quite offended. Henry wished he could see Walter's face. Even miniscule rebellion was all he had at the moment.

And he decided to give the truth a try. "Don't you read your own scriptures? I found a scrap in my room, and it said your little ceremony brings the Devil, not God!"

Miranda snorted. "I have come across such an excerpt. It was written by a woman who neither I nor anyone else in the congregation will speak of fondly. A heretic, a traitor. Her filthy words will not draw us away from our goal."

Henry gritted his teeth. He knew that the truth wasn't going to get a response along the likes of "Oh, really? Well, golly gee, you run along then!" but he had been hoping for any other reaction rather than complete dismissal.

"Now," the woman went on, "do you want your answers? Or are you going to persist in convincing me that I am wrong?"

Henry said nothing.

"Alright then," Miranda said with a smile. "You are obviously aware that you are part of the Twenty-One Sacraments, a ritual that compels God to descend back to our realm of existence. But there are still more steps to be taken before She can assume Her true form among us."

"She is no longer tainted and repressed by this world," Walter spoke up, "but She is weak."

"Thank you, Walter," Miranda said, but her tone urged him to keep quiet. "Through the Son," she explained, "we learned that the Final Sign must return to fully assume his role as the Receiver of Wisdom, to deliver further messages from the Holy Mother to her devoted flock."

"So we resurrected you," Walter added. Henry couldn't help but notice that the other man's tone was hoping that Henry would be pleased by this.

"Do you understand?" Miranda asked him.

Oh, he understood now. He was Tiresias. Fucking Tiresias in _Oedipus Rex_. The blind prophet. He could only hope someone else's eyes were gouged out by pins. "I'm not helping you with anything," Henry growled. "You killed innocent people. You killed _me_!"

"I had to," Walter replied. "Otherwise, Mother wouldn't have come back. She wouldn't be able to lead us to Paradise."

This was new. "Lead you to what?"

"Paradise," Miranda repeated.

Henry shook his head. "You just wanted to bring 'your mother' back! I didn't learn anything about this 'Paradise.'" He paused. "I hope this isn't supposed to be it."

"Paradise is nothing like this corrupt world!" Miranda laughed. "When the Holy Mother is completely empowered, she will be able to open the Gates to Paradise and lead all those worthy to salvation!"

Henry couldn't help it. He turned his head towards Walter, and said, "Since when!"

"Poor Walter was a bit confused," Miranda explained cordially. "He missed his mother so intensely, reuniting with her and gaining Paradise were one and the same in his head."

Henry snapped his head back towards her. All he could do was narrow his eyebrows, since he couldn't all out glare. She had to know that what she had just said was total crap.

"Regardless," she went on, "there is only one more ritual to complete before Paradise is opened: the Realization of the Holy Mother. You see, your role as the Receiver of Wisdom is incomplete. There is still much for you to learn."

Henry did not like where this was going. Not that it had ever been going anywhere particularly pleasant.

"The Holy Mother has chosen you to receive her words and instructions. She will tell us how to fully empower her through you."

"Through me how, exactly?"

"I cannot say. Perhaps visions or something of the like. We have had members who were gifted with the Sight. Have you--?"

"No shit like that ever happened to me before this all started," Henry interrupted.

"I'm going to attribute your constant harsh language to your stress."

"And we know who to thank for that," Henry spat back.

"It should be an absolute honor to be chosen by God for such a great duty."

"If you actually think I'm going to tell you how to empower a demon, you're all crazier than I thought."

Miranda chuckled. "God knows that despite Her Blessing upon you, that you will be stubborn. She will urge you to help in her own way. I doubt we will have to do anything to intervene."

Henry didn't know what that meant. But he didn't really care.

Miranda continued on. "Walter is to watch over you as our prophet and his chosen."

Henry asked anyway, out of sheer hope and denial. "His chosen what?"

"You know what I mean," she replied, her amused smile evident in her voice.

"And what exactly gave him that… idea?"

"His mother, of course," Miranda replied. "The Holy Mother has deemed you to be the one worthy of her Son's love."

"This is not fucking happening."

"Walter is patient." The smile was still there. "He will wait until you're ready."

"Well, he's going to be waiting one hell of a long time," Henry snapped. If he had been able to see the twitch of hurt cross Walter's features, he still wouldn't have cared. It would have just made him more nervous.

Miranda went on again, as if she was perfectly confident that Henry would see the error of his thinking. "I was going to start your lessons today, but I had Sister Alice accompany Sister Ursula and Tamara to Brahms. Tomorrow will do just as well."

"Lessons," Henry repeated. It wasn't the first time he'd heard about them, but he hadn't really been in the mood to ask Walter before.

"Well, it hardly makes sense for the Receiver of Wisdom to know nothing of the faith he plays an integral part in, does it?"

"You know," he said acerbically, "I really couldn't care either way."

Miranda ignored this remark. "I'm sure you'd like to get freshened up and such things, so Walter will escort you to the bathroom."

'Freshened up?' Henry could have laughed. He was getting that feeling a lot today. Of course, now that she mentioned it, he really had to pee. At least they weren't having him use a bucket in the corner. Or, possibly worse, the bathroom in the apartment.

"Walter will help you if you need him."

"Uh, no, I can definitely handle all that by myself," Henry replied pointedly. If Walter tried to follow him in there, he'd rip the mirror off the wall and smash him in the face, with or without sight.

"Very well," Miranda said, sounding amused again. Henry was feeling especially annoyed. Did she really think he'd give in eventually, or did she know that her 'religion' was total bullshit? "We shall speak again in the future," she went on, "but for now, I leave you in Walter's hands."

And that was their cue apparently. Walter wrapped a strong hand around Henry's upper arm and pulled him to his feet. Henry said nothing; he just let himself be pulled from the room.

Miranda watched the doorway until Walter closed the door behind them. A black cat slipped out from beneath the desk she'd been sitting at during the meeting. She glanced at it with an eyebrow quirked up in surprise. It yawned, then stretched dramatically with its front paws extended far in front of it and with its rear end raised up. Then it hopped up onto her desk and mewed until she pet it.

Miranda knew perfectly well how all this had started. She knew that Walter had been brought to Wish House when he was only a baby, and they had raised him with the proper ideals and beliefs as the other children. She knew that a few years later, there had been discussion amongst the elders of the Order. She knew that Dahlia had brought the child aside and told him that his mother was alive and waiting for him, and that he had somehow come to believe that the apartment was his mother. She knew that in 'cleansing his mother,' he had brought the Holy Mother into the room instead. It was all, rather, a happy accident.

If the Order's followers knew the truth, or knew that she felt that the Descent had been incomplete because of how Walter had gone about it, Miranda simply didn't know how they would react. So she said nothing of it; she perpetuated Walter's role as a Jesus-figure.

But, she would ask herself sometimes, what did she really know? After all, wasn't it evident that after he had performed the Descent, Walter had been chosen by the Holy Mother as Her Son? He had everlasting life, did he not? She had given him Her first instruction. She had not only given him the responsibility of caring for the Receiver of Wisdom, but given him the other man as a companion.

Frankly, Miranda hardly thought it mattered either way. Paradise was all that mattered.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Ursula was a short, squat woman in her mid-forties. She had been in the Order since she was a teenager. Her mother had died, and having no father or other living relatives, Ursula had been placed in the care of Wish House. She was eased into the Silent Hill religion and was practicing the faith before she even realized she had been converted. But Ursula had no qualms with the teachings in the Book, and practiced diligently.

But it was only two years after she had moved to Wish House that the Order began use of the Tower with 'disciplining' the children, and not very long after that that children began to go 'missing.' The elders avoided discussing the disappearances, merely saying that some children were transferred to other orphanages. But that is when the seed of doubt wheedled its way into Ursula's faith, and it had slowly sprouted over since, though it could never entirely break her confidence in the religion.

Ursula was currently having serious doubts about recent activities. It all screamed 'WRONG' to her. She had never particularly enjoyed the idea of the 21 Sacraments; she didn't think that nearly two dozen deaths boded well for the start of Paradise. And there was always that forbidden scripture, written by one of the Saint Ladies all those years ago. She would never admit it, for to do so would be unbelievably dangerous, but deep down she believed it.

But dare she go find help? Dare she try and set things back on the right path? Dare she tempt a similar fate as Miriam Korchinski, who had been brutally executed before the whole congregation for her treachery when Ursula was only sixteen?

So despite her doubts, out of fear for her own life, Ursula did nothing. But she was always on the edge, always on the verge of giving in to the impulse to flee.

For now, however, she did as she was told, and today she had been told to shop. She had traveled to Brahms with Sister Alice and another young woman, Tamara, to buy supplies. Buy Mor was one of those warehouse stores that specialized in bulk items, and they had already filled a cart with food and other essentials.

Sister Alice was a kind-looking woman in her early thirties, and the softness of her eyes and her serene smile were truly representative of her personality. She was never one for deceit, and did not look for it in others. She had been in the Order for ten years. Currently, she was placing about ten fresh blankets on the top of the overflowing cart.

Tamara, a black girl in her late teens, glowered at all the people milling about. Ursula knew what she was thinking without listening to the mutterings she passed on to Alice. All the children had been raised to believe-- to know-- that outsiders were a threat and a disgrace.

"Will they be saved?" Tamara asked Alice softly, as if the very thought offended her.

Alice just smiled serenely and put a hand on Tamara's arm. "If God wills it. Now, go fetch another cart." She watched the girl as she moved to the front of the store, then focused her smile on Ursula. "You've been anxious lately. What's the matter?"

Ursula just shook her head. "Nothing."

"You should be excited. We witnessed an incredible event only two days ago."

"Yes, I know."

Alice smoothed her hand over the top blanket on the cart. "It was amazing, don't you think?" she whispered so other shoppers would not hear. "A man brought to life before our very eyes…"

Ursula stared at the scuffed tile floor, thinking of the scene in her mind: the Son looming over the Receiver, tearing out his eyes regardless of the screaming.

"I think it attests to the loving nature of God," Alice went on, placing a warm hand on Ursula's shoulder, "that She has chosen a nonbeliever, an outsider to receive Her Words." She squeezed and looked at Ursula as if all she wanted to do was share the wonderful feeling of God's love.

"Yes…" was all Ursula could respond with, but in her thoughts: _If it is indeed the Holy Mother that the Son has conjured. If Miriam was in fact a heretic and her writings about the Twenty-One Sacraments weren't true…_ Ursula looked over her shoulder to check on Tamara. The girl was pushing an empty cart back over to her chaperones, her eyes set straight ahead and chin held high. Ursula's jaw clenched when she saw a young black man about Tamara's age approaching the girl.

"Hey, honey," he said, sidling over to Tamara. He grabbed the handlebar of the cart and effectively stopped her in her tracks. He eyed her dress, best described as a black frock. "What you coverin' up for?"

The girl's eyes snapped down to the unwanted hand on the cart, then her glare traveled up the arm, over the shoulder, up the neck, and to the cocky face. She sneered. To Ursula, she looked as if she wanted to vomit. "Burn in Hell!" she snapped.

The young man was taken aback by her venom and let go of the cart as if she'd bitten him. "Damn! What the fuck!" he exclaimed after a moment of shock.

Tamara released him from her gaze and went back to pushing the cart, heading straight over to Alice and Ursula.

But the young man, now offended, followed behind. "What's your fuckin' problem, bitch!" he growled, effectively calling attention to himself and Tamara.

The young woman left the cart to her two chaperones and whirled around again. She took two steps toward the young man, and though she was shorter than him, her anger forced him to cower back. "Filthy heretic! The very idea that Paradise would have you traipsing around, polluting its beauty with your--"

Ursula grabbed Tamara's arm. "Calm down, child!" she hissed.

Alice smiled apologetically around the store at all the customers who were staring and whispering to each other. The smile softened when she turned to the teenager. "I understand what you are feeling, dear, but please do not make such a fuss. A problem could get us escorted from the store." Ursula glanced around, and indeed noticed that two employees, marked by blue aprons, were looking at the trio and talking emphatically. Alice also noticed, and with a pointed look at Tamara, walked away to speak to them.

The young man, stupefied all this time, wisely decided to leave the girl be. He disappeared elsewhere into the store, only glancing back once in bewilderment.

Ursula frowned at Tamara. "Now be quiet and help me load the cart."

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Henry sat on the counter between two sinks with his head in his hands and a damp towel around his neck, trying to collect his thoughts. He'd tried to alleviate his headache by massaging his temples, but that had only made the pain worse.

The bathroom was odd. It had multiple stalls like a public restroom, but there was a shower stall in the corner. And he had used it, after assuring Walter that, yes, he'd be careful with his eye sockets and, yes, he'd let him know if he needed any help (though he definitely wouldn't ask for it, that was for goddamn sure). But the usual refreshed feeling he had after a hot shower was missing for obvious reasons.

Prophet. He was to learn more, and give the information to Miranda so that the Holy Mother could become all-powerful. Like hell he'd do any such thing. And meanwhile, he was expected to form a… relationship with Walter. Like there was ever a fucking way in holy fuck that would fucking happen.

Knocking. "Henry?"

Henry groaned.

The doorknob jiggled. Then more knocking. "You locked the door."

"I know." He suddenly remembered that he had never asked Miranda where the hell they were.

"Why?" persisted the voice on the other side of the door.

"Because I want you to stay _out_."

Silence. Then: "Are you okay?"

"Jesus mother…" Henry muttered to himself. He took the towel and draped it over his head.

"What?"

"Go away!" he shouted, despite how it increased the panging in his head.

"The clothes are okay?"

Henry growled. "They're fine." The fresh change of clothes felt fine, anyway. He supposed they were just the same as the ones now piled on the floor. Of course, for all he knew, the ones on the floor could be dark purple and the ones he was wearing could be bright orange.

"So you're done?"

"Walter--"

"I need to take you back to the room."

"I'll stay as long as I like."

"I will get the door open."

Henry didn't say anything. He took hold of the ends of the towel and pulled it snugly around his head, hoping that the dampness would do something for his headache. He tried to ignore the smashing against the door and when it finally burst open and Walter walked up to him.

"You're finished?" As if breaking down the door was a perfectly natural thing.

Henry just pulled the towel tighter around his head.

"Henry?"

Maybe he'd be lucky and he'd actually manage to suffocate after all. Of course, if he'd saved Eileen, if he'd cleared out his apartment, none of this would be happening.

Walter pried Henry's fingers from the towel and took it away. He brushed the damp hair out of Henry's face.

Henry immediately smacked his hand away. "Will you knock it off!" he snarled. "I already made it ridiculously clear that it's not going to happen!"

A low exhalation. "Mother has--"

"I don't care if you think your Mother has chosen me for you!" Henry hollered. It killed his head, but he didn't care. "Do you have any idea how irrational that is?" He broke off with a laugh. "Oh, wait! You're fucking _crazy_!" At this he moved off the counter and to his feet, and haphazardly swung his fist. He hit nothing but air, and he only got angrier. "You don't kill someone and then act like you actually give a shit about them! You don't chase them down with a gun while _laughing_ and then feel concerned for them! You can't just turn around and suddenly have fucking feelings after stabbing and electrocuting and drowning people and setting them on fire and fucking beating the _life_ out of them and then just leaving them there for me to find and try to figure out what kind of horrible _fucked-up_ person could do such things!" He could barely hear himself over the roaring in his head. "You can't! That's insane! _You're fucking insane!_" His eyelids were burning and tears were running down his face from the pain. "And if you ever, _ever_ try to fucking _do_ anything, I swear to fucking _GOD_ I'll--" He stopped, doubled over and grabbed his head. "_Jesus fucking Christ!_"

Walter was quiet for a moment. Then: "You just don't understand right now."

Henry laughed.

"You need to calm down. You're hurting yourself."

Henry didn't say anything this time. His legs suddenly unlocked, and he would have hit the floor if Walter hadn't been there to catch him. Henry thought Walter was saying something to him, but then everything blacked out and the pain was left behind.

* * *

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo 

I really don't have such a potty mouth in real life. I swear. (Ha, ha. That could be a pretty good joke. Get it? Um…)

Why is it that when you like a character, you wind up doing awful, awful things to them?

Next chapter should be pretty short, so it _shouldn't_ take too long, but knowing me... Please read and review to encourage me? Eh? EH?


	7. Chapter Six

**Disclaimer:** Don't own, so don't sue.

**Long-Ass Author's Note: **  
Aw, I was hoping someone would get the small Easter Egg-type thing for SH2 in the previous chapter. I'll point it out in the next chap if no one gets it.

When someone proselytizes, it means that they are attempting to convert you to their faith. Hence, proselytization.

Now, in reference some reviews, here's a bit of a write-up about Walter's character in this story. (It's okay 'cause this chapter's short anyway…)

**BRIEF EXPO ON WALTER'S CHARACTER: **  
Walter's first and foremost motivation will always be his mother. It was not only because he wanted to be with her, but because he wanted to cleanse her that he performed the 21 Sacraments.

His change of heart towards Henry comes solely from the Holy Mother's words to him, that Henry would not only play a key role in her empowerment but had been chosen to be his other half. There are certain motivations behind this besides rewarding him for being a good son (or, in actuality, a misled servant), but they will be discussed later in the story. If She had never told Walter this, I think he would continue to see Henry as simply a Sacrament. But since She has said this, Walter may appreciate something for his own benefit (companionship and "potential" love) as he has been striving for Her benefit since he was a boy.

Now, in regards to the idea of Walter forcing himself on Henry: I think this would be possible if the Holy Mother had specifically told him to take Henry sexually. But She hasn't said this. Therefore, Walter is free to interpret having Henry as his as he will. Though Walter's college attendance and acknowledgement of Cynthia as "Temptation" clearly implies that he is not naïve, I really don't think he has much of a libido. I think what he wants from Henry will go deeper than that, and this will also come up later in the story.

I have seen some stories where Walter has forced Henry, and it just seems incredibly out of character for him. Maybe because he's usually talking too much or talking… un-Walter-y. To me anyhow.

But that's my two cents. Take from it what you will. On with the fic!

* * *

**CHAPTER SIX  
Matriculation**

The faint memories of being a ghost came to him in his sleep.

Again he dreamt of the warm red room. Slowly his eyes opened and he could see Eileen. Her bandages and clothes were gone, but her skin pulsed with deep bloody colors. She was in deep slumber, cradled to a sullen chest with a boney claw. As was he, he realized, feeling the fleshy heat from the emaciated creature's skin pressed to his own nude form. His skin was ragged; he could feel the sting of the cuts all over his body, though they did not bleed.

The two final souls, those of the Mother Reborn and the Receiver of Wisdom, did not wander as the others did. They had been held close to the Holy Mother, who was housed in the borrowed True Form of the Conjurer.

He wanted to reach out to Eileen, wake her up, but he couldn't move. The warmth kept him sedated. In fact, the sudden urge to wake Eileen faded quietly as quickly as it came.

The Holy Mother inclined Her head to him. He could not see Her face, but he felt Her breath on his head. She did not speak , but words echoed quietly in his mind.

**My Receiver of Wisdom.**

Hers… No, he wasn't Hers, he told himself. None of them were. They had been taken by Her, through Her Son, but She held sway over them only through incantation and ritual, not through their will.

**You will quell him for me.**

Something was happening. Deep within, he could feel a part tearing, a part if it, it that made him who he was. It was Her. She was taking the bit away, to hold within Herself, and he realized that he was wrong, that they were all Hers, that free will could in fact mean very little.

But he could do nothing. He could only lie prone in the Holy Mother's embrace and stare at Eileen with eyes that stayed open only because he realized this wasn't his actual body. This was a representation, though it could still feel, though it could not escape Her.

**They shall call you soon.**

Her claw curled intimately around him.

**Sleep.**

Hot and wet, Her snake-like tongue descended and stroked once over each of his eyes, closing them. The burning saliva enflamed the cuts on his face, especially the numbers spread beneath his eyes, but he did as She said.

As his mind returned to nothing, he heard her say fondly, once more, **My Receiver of Wisdom**.

* * *

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo 

Um... that was shorter than I expected. Sorry. (sweatdrop) Hopefully the next chap will be out in good time.


	8. Chapter Seven

**Disclaimer:** Don't own, yo. You know how it be.

**Author's Note:** Ha ha! This is a REAL chapter update, bitches! **19** **pages** of Trauma!Henry goodness in Word! And I am _never_ making a chapter this long again if I can help it. Jebus.

Au contraire, **Saddened Soul**! The previous chapter was only a dream. Though dreams can be considered visions… But that is not what Miranda (or I) meant. The first "vision" (quoted 'cause it's not really a vision, per se) will occur very soon. Meaning the next chapter.

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVEN  
****Education**

Henry awoke slowly. He was back in his bed. He had a headache, but it was not as bad as it had been the previous days.

"Good morning."

Morning… He had slept through the rest of the day before and the following night? Yes… He had. The dream. It came back to him sluggishly, mimicking the lethargy his body felt.

He must have appeared confused, as Walter said, "I told you. You need to stay calm."

Henry pushed himself up to a sitting position. Something flat slid into his lap. A tray.

"Breakfast."

His fingers tapped the edge of the tray. "I shouldn't need to eat."

"What?"

"You said that… your mother… that she 'protects' us, that she keeps us from dying."

"Yes."

"If I just didn't eat, what would happen? I wouldn't die, right?"

"No, you wouldn't."

"Then why am I hungry if I don't need the food?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know? You should know."

"It would be more appropriate if you knew."

"… Was that a _joke_?"

Walter did not acknowledge the question. "How are you feeling?"

Henry thought back to the dream, a brief haze where he could see again. "Dead."

After the past two days, after feeling scared and trapped and so goddamn angry, he just felt nothing. But he supposed it was only natural. He was normally very calm, very mellow. Being forced on such a harsh course of emotions, especially after everything he'd seen and done, just took his mind and put it through the wringer. At the moment, he was so emotionally stagnant that he didn't care when Walter sat on the side of the bed and took his hand.

"Eat," the other man said again. "You'll feel better." He placed Henry's hand on each piece of tableware as he told him what was on the tray. "Water. Juice. Toast. Eggs." He touched Henry's fingers to a small, final dish. "And Sister Alice said to give you some fruit." A small clang of a utensil catching a plate. "Do you want help?"

"No." Henry raised his hand, palm up, and Walter gave him the fork. He felt around for a dish-- it didn't matter which-- and after a bit of hit-or-miss, managed to spear his fork into whatever food was there. He put the food into his mouth and chewed. The taste was sweet and crisp: apple.

"Sister Alice is excited to meet you," Walter said while Henry ate. "We'll be going to see her after you eat and I clean your face."

Henry had never been brainwashed before. He wondered what tactics they'd use. And fail with. Like he could believe anything this 'Alice' said. Alice. What a suitable name in the twisted wonderland he'd been drawn into, with no foreseeable way to climb out of the rabbit hole.

"I think talking with her will help you."

At this point, Henry thought a lobotomy would help him.

"Afterwards, I'll bring you back here. Then you will be alone while I am out."

Henry didn't say anything. He just did his best to eat, something to do so he could put off thinking for a bit longer.

"Mother Miranda yelled at me for breaking the bathroom door."

Henry chewed twice more, then nearly choked when he started to laugh. He managed to swallow the forkful of eggs as Walter leaned over and placed a hand on his back, apparently ready to give Henry a good whack to clear his throat.

"Are you okay?" A tinge of concern.

Henry coughed, but he couldn't help chuckling. As he took Walter's arm and moved it away from him, he thought that he must have lost his mind to be laughing in his position. "Is she allowed to do that?"

"To do what?" Walter asked as he took Henry's hand a closed it around one of the glasses.

"Yell at you. Scold the apparent 'Son of God.'" Henry raised the glass to his lips and took a sip. Water.

"She scolded us often at Wish House."

"Yeah, but now things are different. You're not a kid."

"Mother Miranda remains my elder. She has a responsibility to remind me to behave as my role dictates to honor Mother."

Henry didn't have anything to say to this. It was in the silence that followed that it occurred to him that he had just been having something like a normal conversation with the man who had killed him some time ago. Henry realized that he didn't know how much time had passed between the present and that sixth day.

"How long was it before you brought me back?" Henry asked.

"Forty days."

Forty days. Over a month since he'd awakened in this same bed on the sixth day of his entrapment. And here he was, he couldn't help but remind himself, trapped again.

"Eat," Walter urged him, interrupting his thoughts. "Sister Alice is waiting."

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Sister Alice was the equivalent of a Sunday school teacher for the children at Wish House. Sometimes she would tell the children stories she heard from other adults about Walter's time as a child at the small orphanage, and let them know that God was always nearby, that God did not want to reject them. She enjoyed teaching the children, and hated having to tell Miranda or Ivan when any of them needed to be punished.

Miranda had told Alice to teach Henry about the Order's dogma, because, really, how could a figurehead of one's religion be uneducated about the religion itself? Miranda had also said that she hoped it would cultivate a better relationship between the Receiver and the Son and satisfy God.

Alice was prepared for the task at hand as she waited in the administrative building's employee lounge for the Receiver to arrive for his first lesson. He was not the first adult she had attempted to convert. She had learned over the years that adults couldn't be taught of her religion's ways; you had to argue it with them. But the aim was the same: to bring them under God's gracious light. Of course, Henry already had God's Grace. He just needed to be educated.

The door opened and Walter escorted Henry into the room. Still uneasy with his blindness, Henry's face was marked by an unsure frown as he carefully walked over to her with Walter. They stopped in front of her, and Walter sat Henry down in a chair opposite Alice.

"Henry, this is Sister Alice," Walter introduced as she bowed her head to the both of them. He smiled at her and brushed his hand against Henry's shoulder. "I will return in a half-hour." He left.

"I am honored," Alice said softly to her new student, "to teach you our catechism, even if you do not understand it."

"It's not that I don't understand it," Henry retorted. "It's the plain fact that you people are completely out of it! And--"

"Do you believe in God?" Alice interrupted.

He frowned. "I sure as hell don't believe that what you're trying to bring here is God!"

"Do you believe in God?" she repeated. Infinite patience.

"Your so-called God is a freaking demon from--"

"Do you?"

"Yes, I do," Henry finally answered, annoyed.

"And from what faith does your idea of God originate?"

"I don't ascribe to any religion." He added, "Or lunatic cult."

"Oh, but what is the difference between a religion and a cult?" she asked him.

Henry had heard this argument before. He knew that there wasn't much of any difference between the two. Both were congregations that worshipped a deity. They held services, programs, and sought members. Cults were more well-known for dishonest dealings and strange, sometimes abhorrent practices, but if you looked into the background of any religion, you could find the same thing.

"The only real difference," Alice said, "is societal acceptance. Any religion can be judged as 'a cult.' And you must know that society is hardly capable of making any kind of proper judgment, much less when it comes to matters of God."

"Your 'Holy Mother' is not God!" Henry insisted. "Can't you see that? That thing is horrifying! It needed twenty-one deaths for it to be resurrected!"

"Is it so hard to believe that good things can come from pain and suffering?"

"Well… no, but--"

"We are perfectly aware that the Holy Mother will make destruction. But that destruction is what will purify the Earth before it can become the Paradise that God desired."

"Destruction…" Henry felt a tightness in his stomach. "Is that what Paradise will do?"

"Mm hm." She smiled and said contentedly, "But afterwards, there will be glory for all those God deems worthy."

Oh, Jesus. He had never really been sure what the Holy Mother would do, but something like world destruction had always been strongly suspected. If it was true, and he didn't stop it somehow, everyone would be obliterated.

And it would be completely his fault.

Alice noticed the distress in Henry's body language: his body was pulled into itself, like strings extended to all parts of his body were winding into his center and hunching his tense shoulders, attaching his knees and tucking his legs beneath the chair, and keeping his elbows close to his sides. She sighed and proceeded with the lesson. "Have you been to the Holy Ground before?"

"Holy ground?" Henry repeated back to her distractedly.

"Silent Hill."

"Yes. For vacation when I was younger. A few times since."

"How did you feel?"

He chuckled. Right now, he felt like he was going to throw up. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Please tell me."

"I felt… good, I guess. It was nice there. Tranquil." He shook his head. "But that was before all of this."

"You felt at rest? At peace with your soul? Like you were home?"

"So what?" Henry replied curtly. "That was a long time ago."

"Don't you see?" Alice said. "You felt this way because you and the town are one." She pressed a hand against his chest, over his heart. "The Holy Mother _has_ chosen you. She wants you with Her. When Paradise comes, She wants you with Her. She wants you to reject this corrupt world and accept Her into your heart."

She gathered his hands in hers. "And it is more important that you are saved than any of us, because of who you are, who She chose you to be."

Listening to her, Henry knew that she truly, actually believed it all, just like Walter and Miranda. But she wasn't arrogant like Miranda. She truly wanted to help him. And she didn't seem like she could have ever shed a drop of another person's blood in her life, unlike Walter. She didn't fit into the scenario Henry had created in his mind at all.

"You're too nice to be here," he told her quietly.

"You really think we're all such terrible people?" she asked.

"I just don't understand how you could believe all this. Of all the religions out there, you picked this one."

She laughed, but there was a note of irritation in it. "Picked? Like from a hat? I do not take my faith lightly. I gave up my former life for Her."

"I wouldn't give up anything for this," Henry replied, gesturing to his blindfold.

"I know it's hard to accept that God did this to you," Alice said, "but sometimes we need to make sacrifices for Her."

"And you sacrificed?"

"Yes." She squeezed his hands. "Years ago, I taught elementary school in Brahms, and I was married to a wonderful man. A wonderful, wonderful man." She paused, breathed deeply. "We'd been trying for the longest time to have a child of our own, and when I finally got pregnant, we were so happy. But then I had a miscarriage. And during the D&C, there were complications, and I could no longer conceive a child.

"My husband and I were Christian, so we went to church and I tried to accept what had happened to me. But sitting in that place, looking up at Jesus on the cross, I found no solace; I found that I could no longer believe in the god I had trusted for so long.

"I came to Silent Hill by myself to deal with it on my own, and that is where I met Sister Ursula. The words she spoke to me filled me with great joy, with the love and hope of God. Unlike when the preacher spoke of Heaven, I _knew_ it was true when Ursula told me that my baby would be waiting for me in Paradise."

_No, _Henry said to himself._ You were desperate. If you'd stayed in Brahms and kept going to your Christian church or gone to a synagogue or a mosque or anywhere, you probably would have felt the same way._

Alice continued. "I came home enlightened. I came home to ask my husband to come with me, to move to Silent Hill and live with God's light upon us. I told him everything I'd learned, but he was like you. He did not believe. He thought I'd gone insane. For two years, he stayed in Brahms and I stayed with God, and we tried to convince each other that we were wrong, until finally we divorced, and I haven't seen him since." She released Henry's hands and clasped her own together, bowing her head and closing her eyes for a moment.

"That's terrible," was all Henry could think to say.

She opened her eyes. "That's the sacrifice one must make for God." She paused. "I think that's enough for today."

He thought so too.

There was a knock on the door. Alice called Walter in.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

When Walter got him back to the apartment, Henry took a seat on the chest by the now useless television, leaning against the wall with his head tipped back.

"I have things to attend to," Walter said. "Stay here."

Henry couldn't stop his sudden laugh. "Like I have a choice?"

"I'll return later."

Henry scoffed. "Yeah, well, be sure to tell Miranda that I said 'go to hell.'"

"I don't know if I will see her."

Henry tilted his head in Walter's direction. "Then… where are you going?"

"I have to take care of some intruders for Mother."

The blind man's stomach twisted. "Take care of…" He leaned forward on the chest. "No, no, you can't do that!" he exclaimed.

Walter came over and Henry felt his hands on his shoulders. Hands that would be bloodied within the hour. "Shh…" he attempted to soothe. "You'll hurt yourself again."

Hurt himself? _He_ was about to go kill people! "Walter, you _can't_ do that."

"They have no business here."

"You can't just kill people!" Henry insisted, despite the fact that he knew very well to the contrary. And then he tried to use reason. "Can't you just… chase them away or something?"

"You care so much," Walter said, and it sounded like he was smiling.

Oh, Jesus. Henry couldn't believe it. The psycho was commenting on his personality at a time like this. "Walter--"

"I have something for you."

Henry gave up. Walter wasn't listening to him. "What is it?" he groaned, thinking of the fate of those soon to meet the man in the blue coat.

There was the sound of Walter rummaging around his pocket. Then he took Henry's hand and placed something soft and light into it. Henry frowned, examining it with both hands. It was…

The doll. Thefreaking_ doll_.

"It can keep you company."

_The goddamned doll_.

Crying shrunken infants patterned on the wall above the chest. Trying to wiggle out of the plaster for the attention of mothers that weren't there. Above the chest he was sitting on at that moment, on the wall right behind him.

Henry practically leaped forward off the trunk, consequently nearly knocking Walter over. The taller man grabbed Henry and pushed him back onto the chest

"What's wrong?" he asked, hands still clamped on Henry's shoulders.

Henry wrapped his hands around Walter's upper arms and tried to push him out of the way. But, as had been the case for days, Walter was stronger. "I need to move," Henry said, chest constricted.

"Why?"

Why? Because… Henry breathed in and out, and slowly realized that the haunting wasn't there behind him, that he was-- in terms of the situation-- okay, that the doll wasn't causing anything to happen.

The doll. It was still in his hand, pressed between his palm and Walter's bicep. He lowered his arms and curled his fingers tightly around the stuffed figure. It suddenly felt so heavy, and though the sound of babies' wailing wasn't in the room, it still echoed in his head. His hand jerked and he tossed the doll away.

"Henry!" Walter sounded hurt. "Don't you want it?"

Henry couldn't help the laugh that burst from his chest. "Why would I want it?"

"You took it before."

"That was when I didn't even know your name, much less that you were trying to fucking kill me!" Henry sneered, smacking Walter's hands off his shoulders. "And I didn't know what it would do to my apartment!"

"It was a gift."

Henry pressed his hands against the sides of his head. "You need to leave."

"…Okay." There was no sound. Walter was standing in front of Henry, looking down at him. If Henry had known that Walter was considering trying to kiss him again, even if the gift had done nothing to improve his mood, Henry would have attempted to smash the chest onto Walter's head. But Walter decided against it, knowing that, given Henry's mood, it would be a grievous error. So he simply left for his 'errand,' saying goodbye before he closed and locked the door.

Henry got up and moved away from the trunk, then made his way over to the door. He tried to open it, but it was indeed locked. He leaned back against the door and breathed deeply, trying to keep himself calm despite the burning pain around the empty cavities in his head. He decided to sit down and moved forward, and his foot tapped into something on the floor. The doll. He hesitated. It was probably harmless. There'd been no hauntings since he'd been reawakened, and his only headache came from his missing eyes. But still… He kicked the doll away, and thought he heard it skitter across the carpet in the hallway. Slowly, he made his way into the living room, managed to find the chair and sat down.

He tried to ignore the smell of dried decay that permeated the entire apartment, and tried to ignore the undeniable fact the chair he was sitting in must've been the stained version that had made him recoil back when he was traveling from world to world. This was where he'd be living, and he couldn't stand around being prissy forever. Christ, he'd been sleeping in the bed; if he were to be infected by anything, it was too late now

It was too late for anything.

He was never going to get out of here. Even if he managed to get out of the room, the whole damn cult was around. He'd never make it past them if he couldn't see. He'd only escape if he could get someone to help him, and he wasn't going to find that person here.

Wherever here was.

He was helpless. Useless. As always.

He'd let Cynthia out of his sight not once, but twice, and Walter had gotten to her in the ticket booth. He had stabbed her again and again, carved the numbers into her breast, and then left her there to die. And when Henry had come upon her, all he could do was lie to her, tell her it wasn't real. Now she would be slithering all over that subway forever.

He'd turned his back for one moment to read a note he'd found on the floor of Wish House, and Jasper had gone into that rear room. He'd heard the scream, but it was too late; when Henry ran through the door, the stuttering man was already ablaze and pathetically trying to snuff the flames consuming him and the numbers across his chest with a candlestick. And what had Henry done? Just stand there in an idiotic stupor while Jasper howled about the Devil. He should have grabbed him and thrown him to the floor and snuffed out the flames. He should have done anything, something before the room pulled him back. Then Jasper wouldn't be forever aflame, drifting around those woods.

And Andrew! The man had been scared out of his mind, and Henry had just let him wander off by himself even after he had raved about Walter trying to kill him. And when he found him in that torture chamber in the basement, it was too late. He'd been drowned and marked with numbers in his gut. Doomed to wander the spiraling hall of the water prison, singing of gruesome rituals.

Richard had been the one to leave Henry by himself. But that didn't mean Henry couldn't have tried to stay with him. After watching three other people die, he should have known better. He shouldn't have left him alone. But he had let the man go off on his own, and when Henry somehow wound up in Room 207, he was greeted with the smell of burning flesh. Richard was strapped to that chair, shaking and choking and bleeding with the digits across his forehead. And all Henry had attempted to do was the dumbest thing anyone could think of: try to undo the straps with his bare hands. The electric shock blew away that idea, and all he could think to do afterwards was watch him die, just like Cynthia and Jasper. When Henry saw him again, he'd been stalking around the buildings, fizzling out like static only to reappear from behind with the swing of a pipe.

And then there was Eileen.

Oh, God… Eileen.

Too slow to get into her room and stop the beating. Walter's younger self had done that instead. And again too slow to stop her from walking into the pool of blood. He had led her down there in the first place. "Let's do that," he had said, after telling her about Joseph's letter. "There must be something down there." And she had agreed. But what other choice did she have, other than to follow a complete fool to death?

He couldn't help anyone, much less himself.

He was stuck here.

There was a noise from the door. Henry raised his head. Walter was back already? Metal was jiggling within metal, as if he was having difficulty unlocking the door. Henry suddenly got the idea of trying to just hold the door closed and not letting the murderer back in the room (not that such an idea would really accomplish anything), but the lock finally clicked and the door creaked open.

The footsteps were what had let Henry know that something was off. They weren't Walter's slow-paced, methodical steps. They were light and uneven, as if the person was unsure. They made no other noise as they pushed the door closed.

Henry's heart thudded in his chest. Someone-- or something-- strange was in the room with him. His fingers dug into the arms of the chair, dried blood or whatever it was no doubt getting under his nails. He listened. There were no more footsteps, but he could make out faint breathing across the room.

He tried to swallow the lump in his throat. Not knowing what else to do, he leaned forward a bit, and said, "Hello?"

Another sound. A small gasp?

He suddenly thought of the kid, Walter Sullivan's child form. Could it be him? Where had he gone anyway? Henry hadn't had any inclination that he was in the apartment, and Walter never spoke of him. The little boy was pretty quiet, except for the last time he had spoken to him in the forest, at the edge of Toluca Lake.

There was a sudden burst of giggles, and Henry knew it wasn't Little Walter. It was definitely a young girl's voice. He thought of the doll once more, and the faces on the wall, but reminded himself that laughter was the opposite of weeping. But who was it?

His patience was worn out as it was. "Who's there, dammit!" Henry snapped.

Only more giggles, closer now, then something latched around his legs and cried out happily: "BOO!"

Henry gasped, and waited for the creature to do something… something horrible, was all he could think of. But she only kept laughing. And then he realized that she was an actual little girl.

"Um… hello?" he said.

"Hiiiii," she replied, and she hugged his legs tighter.

"… Who are you?" he asked, bewildered.

"My name is Deirdre!" she chirped.

What the hell was this? "How'd you get in here?"

"I opened the door," she replied, in a tone that said such should be obvious. Then she whispered conspiratorially, "I'm not supposed to be here! I snuck in."

"But how?"

"Mother Miranda keeps a key in her desk," she said, still whispering. "I took it, but I gotta get it back before she gets back."

"But… why are you here?"

"To see you!" she exclaimed. "Shouldn't you know that?"

For a moment he was confused by what she meant. But then he remembered that he was a prophet. Right. Henry sighed. "It doesn't exactly work like that."

"Do you really have no eyes!" she suddenly asked with exuberant curiosity.

Henry reflexively touched at the blindfold. "No, I don't."

She crawled into his lap, not noting his surprise. "But it helps you, right?" By her proximity, he guessed she was closely eyeing the bandages around his face. "It helps you receive wisdom from the Holy Mother?"

"That's what Miranda says," Henry grumbled. But he shouldn't be concerned with the old woman, he told himself. Here was someone new, someone he might be able to trust. Maybe he could get some answers from this girl. "Deirdre?"

"Yes?"

"What happened here, in South Ashfield?"

"South Ashfield?" She was confused. "We're not in South Ashfield."

Henry frowned. "What are you talking about? We have to be in Ashfield. We're in this apartment."

She laughed. "We're in Silent Hill."

Henry said nothing. Then hesitated and swallowed hard. "That's impossible."

"Nothing is impossible with God," the girl replied easily.

She was going to grow up to be just as crazy as the rest of them. "But… how? This room was in the Heights. It can't be moved hundreds of miles away!"

"This room is a temple now," she said. "The Son made the doorway into a portal, so now it leads to the holy ground instead of that other place."

It was hard to believe, but Henry had walked unfamiliar hallways and steps himself. The room did indeed lead elsewhere. "Where in Silent Hill are we?"

"We're at a campground. Camp Nebi."

An ideal place to set up a cult, Henry thought to himself. "But doesn't anyone notice you guys are all at the camp?"

"Who? Everyone left."

"Left?"

"The Holy Mother drove the nonbelievers out so that we could make way for her."

Everyone not in the cult was gone. Henry was all alone. Even if he made it outside, no one would be there to help him. Anyone who might, Walter was sent to dispatch.

"What's the matter?" the girl asked.

Alone on his own again. But, no, he couldn't lose hope. "Where is the camp?" Henry asked.

"It's by the lake. By the road."

"Which road?"

"Sandford Street."

Sandford Street… He thought back to his sightseeing trip a few years ago, to the map he had used while wandering around with his camera. Sandford Street led around the west shore of the lake, and connected with Nathan Avenue, which after less than an hour's walk would become County Road 73, which led straight out of town. If he could just manage to find his way…

"Could you help me?" Henry said after a moment's thought.

The girl made a sound of awe. "Oh, yes!" For a child, it was an honor to help the Receiver of Wisdom.

"Could you… help me get outside?" Would she do it? Or would she suspect something?

Silence. Then, "I… I don't think I'm supposed to. Aren't you supposed to stay here? Mother Miranda says you need to be kept away so you are not soiled by the outside world."

Henry tried to suppress his frown at the woman's name. "Well, it won't hurt too much if I just get some fresh air," he persuaded.

"But Mother Miranda--"

"I won't tell her you helped me. Just get me outside, hm?" He'd send her away as soon as they were clear of the others. No sense in getting the poor girl in trouble.

She didn't say anything for a moment, then said nervously, "Well… okay." She crawled down from his lap. "If you're sure you'll be okay."

"I'll be fine," Henry said, faking a smile. Even if he couldn't get help in town, if he could manage to hide, wait until dark and find the road, maybe he could make it out of the town's borders. Surely even if the Holy Mother had chased everyone out, some kind of authority would be investigating?

Unless Walter had gotten to them already…

Henry stood up. He had the opportunity. He had to try.

Deirdre slipped her small hand into his and led him across the room to the door. Henry felt a little thrill when he heard it open and was not reluctant when she pulled him out into the hallway. There was a sudden patter, and Deirdre gasped.

"What was that?" Henry asked urgently. Was someone waiting for them?

"There was a cat outside the door. It ran away."

Henry took a deep breath. Just a cat. It was okay. He tilted his head down to Deirdre. "You don't think anyone will see us?"

She didn't say anything for a moment because she was shaking her head. Then she remembered that he couldn't see her, and replied, "Most everyone is helping with the chores across camp. Only Mother Miranda and Brother Ivan and the Son are allowed in here anyways."

"Where are Miranda and Ivan?"

"I thought I saw them watching everyone."

Good, good, but he doubted he had much time. He forced a smile again. "Let's be quick, okay? Mother Miranda, she's so strict, you know. She'll rush me back in once she's found out I've gone for a little walk."

Deidre giggled. "Yeah, she's cranky," she agreed, leading him down the damp, humming hallway. This was a basement, Henry realized.

She matched his steady pace up the stairs to the hall on the first floor. They only took two more steps when she stopped and gasped.

"What's wrong?" Henry said immediately.

She was looking out the window in the door to their right. It led outside. "They're coming!" she whispered in terror.

The immediate and obvious decision: "Hide."

She didn't argue. Henry was pulled all the way down the hallway and through a door, and he recognized that they were in Alice's makeshift classroom, just as he heard another door in the hall open. It was the one that led outside; "they" had just entered. He cursed in his head when he heard the door Deirdre had just flipped open slam into the wall. There were loud voices in the hallway.

"Oh no oh no oh no," the little girl was whispering, still clutching his hand.

"Hide!" Henry hissed to her. He berated himself, remembering the tower prison and young Walter's diary. He couldn't let her get caught. He shouldn't have convinced her to help him in the first place.

His hand was empty. He heard her scrambling somewhere, and then there was only the sound of a few people marching into the room. He heard two voices he didn't recognize mutter to each other, female and male, and then there was a very familiar voice.

"How did you get here!" Miranda demanded to know.

Henry didn't answer her. He stepped back slightly and bumped into something. He reached behind him and it felt like a chair. He held onto it, wondering what would happen. He heard steps walk around the perimeter of the room, and to his horror he heard Deidre gasp.

"Mother, I found a child!" the unfamiliar female voice said. The little girl whined as she was dragged out of wherever she'd been hiding (which was under a large table against the wall).

"Oh," Miranda said, "so you coaxed the child to be your eyes, eh?"

"N-no!" Henry faltered. "I… I just--"

"Just navigated all the way here with your instincts?" Miranda said scornfully. "I hardly think so!" She scoffed, then said, "Bring her here."

Deirdre whimpered as she was pulled over, then let out a sharp cry, as if Miranda had just grabbed her. "How dare you pull such a stunt like this!" Miranda roared. "Did you not think you would be punished, Deirdre?"

"I…" The girl's voice was small. "I just wanted to see him…"

"Well, I certainly hope it was worth it!" Miranda spat.

There was a sound then that made Henry's heart skip. It was the unmistakable snap of an adult's hand against a child's face. Before he could say anything in protest, the sound began to rapidly repeating in succession and then Deirdre was sobbing, barely breathing.

"Stop it!" Henry yelled. He took a blind step forward, arms outward in an attempt to somehow get the girl away.

But the violent noises did stop, though the whimpering remained. Miranda hissed, "You are too cheeky as it is, Deirdre. Be grateful that the Receiver has pled for your welfare."

There was only a whine and a sob in response.

A door opened and closed; the girl had been escorted from the room. Henry heard heels approach him and braced himself. And rightly so, as Miranda's palm struck his face. Henry gritted his teeth and was about to try and respond likewise, blind or not, but arms seized his own. He immediately knew it was Walter. Had he been there the whole time?

"Children!" Miranda raved. "Both of you! You need to learn your place!"

"She's just a little girl!" Henry hollered back, pulling against Walter's restraining grip and ignoring Walter's mutterings for him to stop in his ear. "You're sick! It's not enough to screw them up in their heads?"

"You hardly know what you're talking about." She snorted with contempt. "Walter," she ordered, "please take the Receiver back to your room."

As if he was just another child. Henry thought of spitting on her-- her voice gave him enough direction-- but his caretaker was already dragging him into the hall.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

"You shouldn't have done that," Walter said when they were back in the apartment, or shrine or whatever Deidre had called it.

"You really expect to me to just stay here?" Henry replied.

"Why would you want to leave?" Walter asked, genuinely confused.

Henry's mouth was agape for a few moments before: "Why? WHY? Why the fuck do you think? You've friggin' _kidnapped_ me!" A laugh. "From the goddamn _grave_, at that! Do you understand that I am here against my will! That I don't believe a goddamn thing any of you say?" Of course he didn't understand. Henry was wasting his time. But he was trembling with fresh anger. "How could you just let Miranda hit her? Kids aren't supposed to be treated like that! Jesus, I think_ you_ of all people would empathize with that poor little girl."

"You shouldn't have tempted her to break the rules."

Henry was shocked. Walter was blaming him? For some reason, he felt a twitch of betrayal. What the hell was this? "Excuse me?" was all he could reply with.

"Your mind has already been clouded by this wasted world. You shouldn't lead children astray."

_He_ was warping children? Henry bared his teeth. "Look, you son of a bitch--"

Walter's hand was like a vice around his arm, and Henry was jerked towards him so quickly that he thought his neck would snap. Walter's hot breath was on his face, and Henry could hear his furious expression when he said, still in that low, even tone, but with an obvious threat behind it. "Do not talk about Mother that way."

Crazy, Henry remembered. He was crazy, and you weren't supposed to piss off a nutcase. Walter's grip was twisting his arm, and Jesus it _hurt_. He could feel it bending, it was going snap any second and even if it would heal it was going to _hurt_. His shock gave way to the pain, and his chest finally opened up with a low cry.

The yell hitched in Henry's throat when Walter abruptly released his arm and hugged him tightly. He muttered apologies in the shorter man's ear before promising, "You will go to your lessons and understand The Order better. Then Mom will show you how we must achieve the Realization. Then everything will be okay."

Henry stayed very still in Walter's embrace, not wanting to provoke him. But no, said another voice in his head, he couldn't let Walter think that this was okay, that he didn't mind, that he was giving into his role as 'the Son's chosen.'

"It'll be okay," Walter repeated.

"No." Henry securely placed his hands on Walter's shoulders and pushed him away, not too quickly, not too slowly. "No, it's not going to be okay." He shook his head, placed his palms over where his eyes used to be beneath the cloth. "It's not going to be okay. I don't understand how you can think like this. How you can actually believe that I was chosen for anything."

"Mother called to you," Walter countered. He was genuinely upset. "She took you in. She nurtured you, kept you safe and warm as she would have me."

"It was the same for Joseph. He lived here too. He was a Sacrament."

Walter laughed and shook his head. "Mother had little care for him. She let him go about as he pleased. He was only necessary as the Sacrament of Despair, the Giver of Wisdom. You, Henry, you are very different. You are the Twenty-First Sacrament. The Final Sign. The Receiver of Wisdom. Mother cared for you very much. That is why she made you as comfortable as possible until the ritual needed to reach conclusion."

Henry remembered when he first saw the apartments. It certainly wasn't the nicest building he'd come across in his quest for a place to live, but there was something that just drew him to South Ashfield Heights. He had thought it was just the photographer in him appreciating the angles of the building structure or something like that. He had thought that it was just a pleasant atmosphere that made him so comfortable in Room 302 and content to keep to himself. But if what Walter was saying was true, and considering his conversation with Alice about Silent Hill…

Unconsciously, he brought his arms over his stomach, hooking his hands around his elbows. Had he really been somehow involved in this insanity since he was a boy? Just like Walter?

Encouraged by Henry's silence, Walter went on. "You are different from other people. How many of the heretics ruined by this world do you think would have acted as you? How many people would have tried to save others instead of running away and saving themselves?"

"There are plenty of people like me!" Henry snapped, still disturbed by his revelation.

Walter made a tsking noise.

That only made Henry more angry. "You only think that way because that's what they fucking told you! They made you think the world was so terrible so that you would treat it that way! And when you treat people the way you have, how do you think they'll react back to you? Just as you expect!"

"People have always treated you kindly? Because you treat them with kindness?"

Henry hesitated. Then he felt angry again, because his point was being lost. "Well, of course not, but--"

"People act cruelly because that is the way they are."

"And you're not cruel? Taking people's lives just to bring back your mother!"

"I am not perfect." His voice was stunningly sad. "But Mother Miranda has enlightened me to the true nature of my Mother and how I must restore Her for the good of this lost land. My efforts in this will make up for those selfish intentions."

Flabbergasted, Henry could only turn away. "Well, make your efforts yourself."

"I can't." Still forlorn.

Henry was not used to hearing actual emotion from Walter's voice, but he ignored it. "You and your 'mother' are together now, aren't you?" he growled.

"Mother… Mother won't speak to me anymore. She won't speak to anyone but you. She won't speak to anyone but through you. She has chosen you for that purpose."

Henry quirked an eyebrow. "She… she doesn't talk to you?"

Walter didn't answer the question. "And She also chose you for me," he said, reaching over and carefully placing his hand on Henry's arm, the arm he had twisted. "And that is why no matter how many times you reject me, I will always love you."

Standing there, hearing this, a brief thought flickered through Henry's mind:

_Holy shit.__ I've got to get out of here._

* * *

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

I've never actually taken the doll before I finished this chapter. I had to play SH4 again and wait for the damn haunting to show up. And it was creepy as all hell, I'll tell ya.

So, uh, yeah, there's yer trinket, **Sarah** and **PJ**.

**Sageowind**: Sorry, but Walter has no reason to make something like that up. That'd be cute, though.

And back to **PJ**: Walter is crazy, but I don't think he can really be identified as a psychopath, and the only reason he became a serial killer is that he's been possessed by Valtiel. So I don't think he quite fits the profile.

(This practice of addressing reviewers is fun. Perhaps I should do it more...)


	9. Chapter Eight

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Silent Hill in any of its manifestations, nor its characters. I am using them without permission for no monies, because Konami probably doesn't mind, and they are teh luvly.

**Author's Notes:** I'm finally updating this after over a month! Yay! Sorry for the wait.

I'm glad so many of you liked Importance, but I'm afraid it's a one-shot. (sweatdrops) I changed the summary to reflect as much 'cause I don't want people waiting and waiting. I'm flattered that you want me to continue it, though. (showers everyone with mallomars)

I wanna give a shout-out to **Literary Alchemist** for beta-ing for me even though he's not partial to the bit of slash goin' on. You mah bud, g! Everybody give the gentleman a hand!

* * *

**CHAPTER EIGHT  
****Edification**

Getting out, Henry knew, was easier said than done, in the most extreme sense of the old adage. All he could think to do was wait and observe, and hope he'd be blessed by whatever actual God there was with some kind of opening to escape, or at the very least a bit of information that he could use to stop the coming of "Paradise."

Or maybe he'd be lucky enough that someone else would know something terrible was going on in this abandoned town, and he would have a rescuer.

Ha.

Again, it was hard to hope for anything when he was newly blind. He focused as much as he could on not giving into the depression that crept upon him, its tendrils brushing at his resolve and threatening to snatch it away.

And he was waiting. Miranda said the Holy Mother would give him her words. That hadn't happened yet. He dreaded it.

The only silver lining-- and it was a very minute line, thinner than a thread-- was that his headache had dulled considerably by this fourth day of his second chance at life. It was surprisingly just a slight throb around his eye cavities, and Henry was disturbed to find that he was almost used to the feeling of having no eyes. The pads pressed into his face that had once given him comfort were becoming an annoyance. Walter had told him that he wouldn't need to wear the blindfold at all soon, but that wouldn't be for a few days.

It was the day after his attempt to escape with Deirdre's aid, and Henry had another lesson with Alice, during which, to his chagrin, Walter was out doing more "errands." Henry wasn't sure if they were of the same nature as those of the day before (which Walter had completed after returning Henry to his room), but he didn't particularly want to know, so he didn't ask.

"Today we'll be reviewing the Book," Alice said, sitting beside him with the text in her lap.

"The Book?"

"The main text of our faith, like the Bible." The sound of pages flipping. "I usually start out at the beginning, but since you have already been thrown into things, I think we had better start with a more familiar passage." She cleared her throat and began: "The Descent of the Holy Mother-- The Twenty-One Sacraments…"

**The First Sign:  
****And God said,  
****At the time of fullness, cleanse the world with my rage.  
****Gather forth the White Oil, the Black Cup and the Blood of the Ten Sinners.  
****Prepare for the Ritual of the Holy Assumption.**

**The Second Sign:  
****And God said,  
****Offer the Blood of the Ten Sinners and the White Oil.  
****Be then release from the bonds of the flesh, and gain the Power of Heaven.  
****From the Darkness and Void, bring forth Gloom,  
****and**** gird thyself with Despair for the Giver of Wisdom.**

**The Third Sign:  
****And God said,  
****Return to the Source through sin's Temptation.  
****Under the Watchful eye of the demon, wander alone in the formless Chaos.  
****Only then will the Four Atonements be in alignment.**

**The Last Sign:  
****And God said,  
****Separate from the flesh too, she who is the Mother Reborn  
****and**** he who is the Receiver of Wisdom.  
****If this be done, by the Mystery of the 21 Sacraments,  
****the**** Mother shall be reborn  
****and**** the Nation of Sin shall be redeemed.**

"Now," Alice said, raising her head from the book, "how did you interpret this when you first came upon it?"

He could not read it now, but he remembered reading it before. First it was just part of it in a scrap in the wrecked Wish House, and then later, after the doll in the wheelchair made way for him, in its entirety in the basement of the burned down edifice. What was she getting at, though? "What did I think of it?"

"Mm hm."

"It… It's a sacrificial ritual." He resisted the urge to touch the scars on his face. "You were killing us."

"And now?"

"Why would my opinion change?"

"I would like to go over it with you," she replied, sounding soothing as usual, but with an underlying eagerness, "to explain how we see it."

Henry didn't want to laugh at her, since besides the little girl he had met yesterday and doubted he'd ever encounter again, Alice was the only non-hostile person he'd encountered here. But he couldn't help his disbelieving snicker. "Hey, go for it."

She paid no mind to his scoffing tone. "The Ritual opens with the sacrifice of ten sinners," Alice began. "The death of ten proves to God that we are willing to give up the world She despises for Paradise."

"How nice of you to judge like that."

"Do not misunderstand. We suffered our own losses. The very first sacrament was Father James Stone. He did much for the Order; we were shocked that he was chosen. But he, like nonbelievers, also sins, also has darkness."

"Wow." Did she expect him to commiserate with her? To pity them?

"When striving for Paradise," she explained further, "we must be strong and understand God's indiscriminate choices. Even our own members were aghast at the deaths of Billy and Miriam Locane, mere children, but--"

"Children?" Henry repeated, bitter snark suddenly gone.

"Yes, a brother and sister, born and raised on the Holy Ground." She bowed her head and closed her eyes for a moment.

But Henry, of course, couldn't see this, and was caught up with what she had said. "But… I didn't see any children…" It couldn't be true…

"Then how could you explain the success of the Descent?" Alice asked quietly, trying to hold back sadness. God had chosen them, had selected them for their purpose. To be sad was to regret God's decree.

But Henry could easily feel horror at the idea, could feel enough unease and disgust to try and assure himself that there were no children. No children at all. It couldn't be true. The only thing that had been remotely like children was that beast with the child's face…

The _two_ children's faces. Faces with mouths that didn't open but had voices that screamed anyway, not just in attack but when he struck the cumbersome, swathed body with the pipe, brought it down and down again until the blood was everywhere and the sounds died away, never thinking about the _why_ of the pallid, baby-ish faces.

Wanting to get past the poor Locane siblings, Alice continued on. "The hearts of the first Ten Sacraments are removed and used for the Eleventh Sacrament, for the Holy Assumption. In the ritual, the Eleventh Sacrament sacrifices himself using the life from the hearts, the Black Cup, and the White Oil, or chrism. The chrism is a substance created from White Claudia, our faith's sacred plant."

His hand was curled on his lap, loose from the stunning realization that they were _children_, they were Billy and Miriam. She took it and opened it and slipped something smooth and light into his palm. A blossom, he realized, and he tried to focus on that, on the simplicity of a little flower instead of innocent children (oh, God, _children_).

"Its seeds contain what botanists would call a hallucinogen," she said, "and perhaps it is so, but it was supplied to us from God so that we may open our minds and speak with her."

Just then she sounded, Henry couldn't help but note, like a hippie, and the less than nostalgic rants of his father going on about the sixties drifted into his head. _"Bunch of jobless losers,"_ his father had said, _"who never cut their damn hair or took a freakin' shower if they could help it, singing ridiculous songs and running around barefoot while the rest of us made something of our lives!"_ And this boarish speech was preferable to thinking about anything else (he hadn't known, he hadn't known).

"The Assumption gives the Eleventh Sacrament-- Walter, the Son-- the power to create his own world, to use to fulfill the wishes of God, to complete the Sacraments and restore Her. Just as the first ten were representative of the tainted world, the remaining were selected by God for the same reason.

"Years after the ritual, the Son finally reached out from the realm he had created and over a few years brought Darkness, Void, and Gloom back to the fold. Now, to assert that we ourselves were not exempt from sacrifice for Paradise, it is notable that the Fourteenth Sacrament, Gloom, was the former head of this very sect, Father Anthony Archbolt." Alice bowed her head for another moment, reminding herself that it was God's will. "Darkness, Void, and Gloom are representative of how the people of this world have lost their faith in Her, since, you see, they all lead to Despair, and without hope one cannot be blessed with God's Light.

"Now, Despair and the Giver of Wisdom were the same sacrament--"

"Joseph." Henry had been silent for so long, the sound of his own voice, especially in his darkness, jarred even him.

"Hm? Oh, yes." Alice's voice stiffened a bit, remembering how they had to flee Wish House after the article, taking the children by the hand and disappearing into the night with nowhere to go. "Horrible man."

"He cared about the _truth_," Henry asserted, lifting his hand and letting the White Claudia blossom fall away. He felt frustrated, thinking of no good way to communicate how wrong they all were, but unable to just stay silent about it (because then he would have to think about the horribly transfigured brother and sister).

Alice ignored his remark. Adults could be like children sometimes; Henry still just didn't understand, and she could tell he was disturbed, but it wouldn't help if she left the interpretation half-finished. "'Return to the Source through sin's Temptation.' The chil--"

"Jasper and Cynthia." Henry said their names through clenched teeth. "They _all_ had names, you know, not just your precious Fathers and children born on 'holy ground.'"

The teacher frowned at him, but suppressed any sound of annoyance at the interruption. The Receiver of Wisdom was holy in body and soul, of course, but his mind was still tainted. Patience was key, and so she moved on. "'Return to the Source through sin's Temptation,'" she repeated. "The children have difficulty with this sometimes and switch the order, but, you see, Temptation comes first, as we return to the Source through it. It is by giving in to Temptation that we sin, that our souls are doomed to reside at its root, Hell, the Source. And this is where Watchfulness--"

"Andrew."

Alice couldn't help her sigh, but it wasn't so much from annoyance as it was from an understanding tolerance; his heart was in the right place. She put a hand on his arm and rubbed his shoulder. "Yes. This is where Watchfulness comes in, because it is at the Source of all sin where the Demon lives. The Demon and his sin thrive there, as it is amass with Chaos--"

"Richard."

She closed her eyes, feeling pity now. After all, she herself had never seen a life taken, not for good purposes or evil intentions. It must have been awful; for her, just thinking about it stirred feelings of sorrow, especially for those poor children. But for God, for Paradise, it was worth it. It _had_ to be worth it. "And by atoning for these, by taking these four lives, we are ready for the Last Sign, where the ritual is more literal than metaphorical when referring to the last two Sacraments. We have the Mother Reborn…" She opened her eyes as she trailed off, waiting this time.

"Eileen…" _Oh, God… Eileen…I'm sorry…_

Pain leaked into his anger, but Alice forced herself to finish with the last part. "And, of course, there was you, the Receiver of Wisdom. The Final Sign whose death would complete the Ritual and bring God back to us. And God would lead us to Paradise by destroying the Nation of Sin."

Henry sat, slightly bent forward with his hands braced around his thighs. _Eileen… _"So you're basically just telling me that everyone's expendable, that the world is expendable."

"The notion of Paradise is sometimes hard even for members of the Order to comprehend." She lowered her hand from his shoulder and entwined their fingers. She _did_ understand how he was feeling, and wanted him to see that, but… "What makes this world worth saving?"

"Maybe the fact that I live here," Henry retorted, withdrawing his hand. "I grew up in this 'awful' world, and I can see some good in it. My mother didn't raise me to just _give up_."

"I'm sure your mother would be proud of your honorable role if we could get her to understand."

"I don't want any of you approaching my family," Henry immediately replied, voice stricken with hostility.

"I was merely being hypothetical," she assuaged. "Everyone is so busy preparing for Paradise that there is no time to educate nonbelievers. But I personally believe even worthy nonbelievers will be allowed into Paradise. If your mother is a good person, you will meet her there."

"And what if nonbelievers aren't allowed in?"

Alice's hopeful smile faltered. She thought of her ex-husband. "Then… that is God's Will."

Henry laughed bitterly. "And you don't even know if Paradise is real. For all you know, it could be Hell, it could all be a trick that you've all been duped into." Before she could respond, he ducked his head and held onto it with his hands. "Candles… fucking candles… I could've carried more… and the medallions… I should've known… should've figured it out…"

"Medallions? Candles?" Alice reached over and grabbed his shoulder. "I'm sorry?"

"They made the hauntings go away," Henry said, still cursing his stupidity. "I could've weakened her just enough, just goddamn enough…."

Alice frowned, recalling a conversation she had with Ursula, a long time ago.

_"She kept away from everyone for weeks. She was holed up in her room, or went off to be alone. Everyone swore she was suffering from some illness, until they realized that she was merely writing, and were happy to believe that she had been possessed by the Saints to add another tome to the Scriptures._

_"But talk of illness resumed when she began to show fear towards her Sisters and Brothers. When her door was forced open, she was found scribbling with her free hand clutching the Medallion of the Saints hanging from her neck and dozens of white candles lit all around her room. She said wouldn't let anyone see what she was writing until she was ready._

_"Finally the day came, and showing fear, the fear of God, no doubt, Miriam recited her blasphemy to the Order. _

_"She had been suffering from an illness, and it was treachery. She had betrayed her Sisters and Brothers with her heretic thoughts. She was brought before the congregation. She refused to repent. And so a servant of Valtiel struck her down._

_"That night, two Ladies went into her room and found all her candles alight and her medallion thrumming with energy. It was a sign from God that we had done the right thing."_

Alice shook her head. Why should she think of that? It couldn't possibly have anything to do with this. The Receiver had just said that the candles and medallions weakened the power of God. If they were related to those items in the anecdote Ursula had recited to her, that would mean…

"If my death was required," Henry suddenly asked, "how can I be alive and the Holy Mother not harmed?"

For a moment he thought he had gotten her on that one, as she didn't answer him, but she had just been caught off guard in her other thoughts, which she brushed away to concentrate on her duty. As he waited, she lowered her head ever so slightly and was deep in thought. But then she looked at him again and said, "Well, it is in fact your death that was required? Or something that your death accomplishes? Something that your death brings to her that she still has even with your resurrection."

The dream. Henry felt the aching tiny void pulse. Did the Holy Mother have a part of his very soul? He suddenly felt cold. The blood drained from his face.

Alice put a hand on his knee, hoping the gesture conveyed her reassuring smile. "Do not fear to be one with God." Oh, if only others could be so lucky…

A knock on the door. Walter had returned. In yet another unnerving flash, Henry saw, in his head, the other man in the doorway. But he continued to say nothing of it.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Ivan stepped into Miranda's office with an envelope in hand. When she looked up from her desk, he handed it to her. She took it and, recognizing the handwriting that spelled out her own name, scowled. She pulled the letter out and read.

_Mother Miranda—_

_My fellow Sister, I hope all is well on the Holy Ground. But in response to your correspondence, I would like to reiterate the words of caution I offered you not long ago._

_You are embarking on a ritual that has not previously been mentioned in any text. It was understood before recent events that it was the Descent of the Holy Mother alone that would return God to us in full glory. It is disconcerting that it is only after the ritual was performed in a dubious manner that we hear of this new ritual._

_I will not placate you. We were both present when Miriam recited her writings. Though her words have been rejected as heresy, they raise proper questions that I cannot ignore given how fragile our small religion has become. I cannot help but wonder, have we been tricked? I fear so._

_If I am right, I pray that God not only protect you, but forgive your overzealousness. If I am wrong, I will beg forgiveness from the Holy Mother._

_We await word on when the Realization of the Holy Mother is to take place, and look forward to seeing Silent Hill once again._

_If you wish, I will send one of the Ladies to transcribe the Receiver of Wisdom's tellings for you._

_—Mother Rosemary Collins, Head Priestess of the Saint Ladies_

"What does Mother Rosemary say?" Ivan asked.

'Head Priestess of the Saint Ladies.' An attempt to remind Miranda that she was also of high position. Miranda scoffed and tore the letter in half. "Another foolish warning. Ha! That woman should be executed like the traitor."

"She sympathizes with Miriam?"

Miranda nodded. "But she hides it under a guise of caution. She and the Ladies still feel that _girl_ was the only proper conduit for God's rebirth. They make no trouble, of course, but their quiet insolence is infuriating." Miranda snatched up a pen, tapped its tip on a blank sheet of paper. "I should punish her. I should tell her that she and the Ladies are not to attend the Realization."

"Mother, no!" Ivan exclaimed. "I know you could not be so cruel!"

"Cruel? To those who practically ally themselves with nonbelievers?"

"I wouldn't go that far." Ivan clasped his hands below his chest and bowed his head. "When they see the Holy Mother in Her True Form, they will see that they are wrong."

Miranda considered this and nodded. "I am letting my anger get the best of me. I will allow them witness." She set the pen down. "However," she added, "I will not allow one of them to come here until then. We can mark the Receiver's words just as well by ourselves."

Ivan agreed, but he sighed. "I'm sure Mother Rosemary is just upset over the loss of her cousin, Father James."

"It should be an honor to be related to one of the Sacraments, especially the pivotal first."

The young man was about to agree again, until he finally noticed something soft and black upon a shelf against the wall. His body jerked slightly in surprise.

Miranda raised an eyebrow at him, but when she followed his gaze to the dozing cat, she laughed. "Yes, they are quite surprising sometimes."

"They are… unnerving," Ivan said with a frown. "They're everywhere."

"They are Her agents, I think," Miranda said. "How do you think I found out that the Receiver was trying to escape?"

"Her agents?" Ivan considered this and nodded. "Of course. Their number…"

"If God can do all of this in her state of weakness," Miranda said, "imagine her power when we have completed the Realization."

"Once we are instructed to conduct it." Ivan looked to Miranda eagerly. "Mother, has the Receiver…?"

Miranda shook her head. "Not yet. But be patient. Others have waited for Paradise longer than you've been alive."

Ivan nodded. "Yes, Mother."

"Patience was something Sister Claudia didn't have. And look where that got her. What it did to the whole congregation? We were recovering even without Father Toby, and then she pulled her stunt and lost us Father Vincent and the police were brought back into everything and… Ugh!" She threw up her hands. "I'm getting riled again."

"Your position is difficult. And everyone is anxious. We _have_ been waiting so long."

"Anxious…" She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. "Some more anxious than others."

"Mother?"

"Sister Ursula. I've been watching her as you suggested. And you're right; she is behaving oddly, even considering recent events."

Ivan frowned. "Do you want me to contact Father Michael?"

Miranda waved her hand at him. "No, no, I'm not ready to consider it as serious as all that. We'll wait and see if acts harshly, or if she is just more easily rattled." She got up from her seat and moved over to the cat on the shelf. As she pet it, she said, "Besides, we don't necessarily need the Valtiel Sect to take care of her."

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

From the point where he first found the chains lashed across his door until his death, Henry hadn't lost his cool. Granted, that was partly because the situation was so bizarre, dreamlike. He had been very close to believing Cynthia's claim that it was all a dream, even her dream.

And things had slowly spiraled downwards. Each location to which the hole brought him was more dangerous then the last. Vicious, disturbing creatures pursued him. He was compelled to read strange notes and take part in odd puzzles. Each world came to a conclusion with the senseless death of a person who had been later revived to join the other spirits in hunting him. The madness had eventually permeated his apartment, his only sanctuary, with windows rattling and chilled dead cats mewing and children crying and his head pounding pounding pounding. And it had been very much _not_ a dream.

But he had not let it get to him. He couldn't. He had known that if he lost it, he wouldn't survive. So he had put up a wall, and kept going, because at some point it would end, it _had_ to end. If he kept going, there would be some denouement that wouldn't end with him breaking down into tears or madness. And to keep going, he had shut everything off, no matter how insane the world around him became.

But Henry had those reserves of calm, of shielding mental steel, no longer. The time for that was up.

"Eileen…"

He had barely known her, which was more than he could say for the other sacraments. If she had died in some other _normal_ way, he would felt shocked, of course, but not as awful as he felt now. Just a cute neighbor he'd had a small crush on, but never had the nerve to start a conversation with.

But she had died in a horrific manner. She had died filled with a terror that must have raged somewhere deep inside even during her possession, somewhere that could see out her eyes as she came closer and closer to the churning blood pool on bruised, cut, screaming legs. She had felt her body slowly descend into the thick red, first to her ankles, then to her thighs, to the elbows, over her shoulders to her neck, and then it was seeping into her mouth and nose and ears and eyes until one last push of a heel against the stone that lay beneath the blood.

Then the spinning, spiked metal finally caught her body, breaking the spell and allowing her to scream when it rended her to a lifeless assortment of thrashed limbs and ragged flesh and chunks of bone.

And it was all his fault.

She had depended on him to save her. And he had failed.

Nothing left in the reserve. Only his failure, only the gaping hole that laughed and said all was lost, that he might as well jump in and wallow all the way at the bottom instead of lamenting at the precipice. It said he was a fool to cling to hope. The hope wasn't even real anyway. He'd made it all up, just like anyone in denial would do.

He would have been better off in Eileen's position, it said. Like it would have been any different. They both would have died anyway. Only they'd both be infected, both spouting random, childish nonsense as they continued down that suspended winding staircase, from one sanguinary world to the next as the light amidst the fog faded, both possessed and not realizing that they were about to die until the metal snapped them in half.

Possessed… childish… The dreary thoughts brought back the question from yesterday. Henry pulled himself out of his head. He knew he was wavering, ready to fall. He knew he shouldn't let himself sink into those taunting thoughts. He had to cling to hope till the very end, even if the hope was all in his head. But anyway, the question. "Where's the kid?" he asked.

"Kid?" Walter echoed.

Alice had finished her lesson an hour or two ago. They had been in the apartment ever since. Henry had sat on the couch, and with the lack of anything better to do, made the mistake of thinking about his situation once more. Not that he could do anything to distract himself from it. Walter… he hadn't been sure what Walter had been doing. The other man had tried to make conversation, tried to add to Alice's lesson, but Henry refused to answer him, and the blond fell to silence. Henry hadn't been paying all that much attention to listening for movement, but he didn't think Walter had moved at all. He had probably remained stationary, soaking in the presence of the mother he had sought all his life.

Henry massaged his temples. A headache, worse than the mild pain of his eye sockets, was growing. "You know," he said. "You."

Walter was silent for a moment, as if pondering. "We are the same person," he answered. "Mother brought us together again."

"… Oh." So even he, the innocent little boy, was gone. He had been absorbed back into the consciousness of his adult form. His boyhood desire had been achieved. What need was there for him?

Henry forced himself to breathe. Hadn't he done any good _at all_?

He wrapped his arms around his head, leaning forward and rocking back and forth. This couldn't be happening. He should have been stronger. He should have been faster. He should have used the candles.

When Walter sat beside him and took him into his arms, Henry didn't pull away. He didn't fucking care at the moment. He just wanted to be away from here but he couldn't be away from here because he was blind and he had failed miserably and he was useless.

Walter nuzzled his hair, and spoke quietly. "In the beginning, people had nothing. Their bodies ached, and their hearts held nothing but hatred. They fought endlessly, but death never came."

Henry was confused as to why Walter was saying all this, but he listened. It was familiar.

"They despaired, stuck in the eternal quagmire." A pause. "A man offered a serpent to the sun and prayed for salvation. A woman offered a reed to the sun and asked for joy. Feeling pity for the sadness that had overrun the earth, God was born from these two people."

"God made time and divided it into day and night. God outlined the road to salvation and gave people joy. And God took endless time away from the people. God created beings to lead people in obedience to Her. The red God, Xuchilbara. The yellow God, Lobsel Vith. Many Gods and angels. Finally God set out to create Paradise, where people would be happy just by being there."

And here Walter's voice was lower, somber. "But the God's strength ran out, and She collapsed. All the world's people grieved this unfortunate event, yet God breathed Her last. She returned to the dust, promising to come again."

His tone changed again, almost hopeful. "So God hasn't been lost." He lowered his head so his mouth was by Henry's ear. "We must offer our prayers and not forget our faith. We wait in hope for the day when the Path to Paradise will be opened."

Then there was silence, but Henry swallowed hard. His lips parted and he only breathed for a moment, but then he spoke. "The people worked for many years to please God and encourage Her to keep Her promise. They performed a ritual on one of their daughters so that, within her, God's new body would be nurtured and birthed."

Walter raised his head. Henry couldn't be bothered to ponder his expression. His head was throbbing. The words were flowing; they had to be spoken.

"But the people underestimated the influence of the Nation of Sin. The Daughter rejected the Blessing upon her and split God into two. One half remained with her and the other took the form of a baby. The Unbeliever took the baby away.

"Seven years passed, and realizing her mistake, the Daughter called the baby back to her. But the Unbeliever followed, and with his fellow pagans, used the Seal of Metatron to disrupt God's birth. Losing strength, the Daughter reincarnated herself as an infant.

"But the Unbeliever stole the baby away. The people were lost for years, unsure how to act without their lost priest and priestess. After seventeen years of wallowing, the Faithful Sister came upon the Unbeliever and cast the Unbeliever into the Abyss.

"The baby had grown into a woman, but her time with the nonbelievers twisted her. She had been called The Holy One. She had become the Heretic Mother. God's birth was denied once more.

"But what the people didn't realize was that God had prepared for Her Arrival before the Daughter was even born. She had sent Her Son to live among her people.

"When the time was right, he acted as the Conjurer of the Twenty-One Sacraments, smiting the sinners God had chosen. God was restored to Her World, but She was weak.

"The Twenty-First Sacrament, the Receiver of Wisdom, was resurrected to tell of the Realization of the Holy Mother, of the ritual that will fully empower Her and once again give Her Reign over this land ravaged with sin.

"Paradise is upon us."

Henry stopped. His brain felt like it was on fire. He said nothing when Walter kissed his cheek. He could not see Walter bow his head.

"And Her will shall be done."

* * *

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Okay, now that that's done, I'm hoping there'll be more action in the midst of Angst!Henry. Not that the angst is exactly unbidden, or that's there's gonna be much of the ACTION!-BAM-POW kinda action, but… yeah… Froot Loops are good.

Thank you everyone for your feedback! I'm aware that people want Miranda to die (lol at **Marumae**), but I kinda need her for more of the fic. But we'll see what happens, right?

So, um, yes, please feed the author with reviews. She likes frank, honest ones best, though she'll really eat anything.


	10. In the past 1

**Disclaimer:** I own many things, but Silent Hill and all things therein is not one of them.

**Author's Note:** Hey, it's only been a little over two weeks since I updated last. Not too shabby, eh?

So, this chapter is a flashback! Yay! A lot of what I've been working on (but not yet posted) involves flashbacks. I really enjoy them for some reason.

**SaddenedSoul, **I did not lie! I said that when the Holy Mother spoke to Henry, they wouldn't necessarily be through visions (in the author's note for Chapter Seven). So be assured that Henry's addition to the Order's lore was the Holy Mother's doing. Oh, and I apologize again for hijacking your observation. I really do feel bad about it. I would be annoyed too if it were the other way around. I'll somehow get pudding into this story to make it up to you. lol

Onward!

* * *

**In the past…** (1)

"I hear they're gonna quarantine the area tomorrow," McKenzie said, eyes scanning the darkened streets around them.

Corran shot him a sidelong glance. "Eh?"

"Quarantine. You know, drape a sheet over the fuckin' place and run around in beekeeper suits," McKenzie clarified, gesturing over the yellow Ashfield Police Department sawhorse behind them.

A block back lay South Ashfield Heights. Yellow tape formed a flimsy barrier around the apartment building. Despite the lights that persisted in some of the windows, it had been abandoned the day before. McKenzie and Corran were two of the many police officers assigned to prevent anyone from approaching the apartment building. McKenzie was the younger of the two, in his early thirties, and in better shape. Corran, ten years older than his partner, had a bit of a gut that stuck out over his belt, but the glare to his rough, angular face made him seem more dangerous than his clean-shaven partner. McKenzie glanced towards the west. By the glow of streetlights, he could make out two other officers a couple blocks down.

"I know what ya mean," Corran grunted. "They think it's some kinda outbreak, like in that movie?"

"Heh," McKenzie chuckled, "remind me to shoot any monkeys." He shook his head. "They dunno what it could be that killed all those people and our guys. Heart attacks out of nowhere. They figure maybe the copycat had some kinda virus."

"A virus?" Corran looked back at the lit building.

"Why do you think they evacuated those people?" The APD had removed all those who lived or worked in the buildings within a one-block radius to the Heights that afternoon.

"Well, Jesus, it's not like a goddamn virus is gonna confine itself to our perimeter!" Corran exclaimed. "And what about us?"

"They'll probably quarantine us too." The younger cop idly tapped his boot into the black crust of the street. He really wanted a cigarette.

"Like hell!" Corran snapped. "I don't want to live in some goddamn tent! How could they just fuckin' expose us like this?"

McKenzie shrugged. "Our job is to protect people."

"Us bein' here isn't doin' shit for the people still 'round here." Corran gestured to the buildings in front of them, to the people past the one-block restriction. "Can't make them stop breathin'."

"I don't think it is a virus," McKenzie said. "We've been here a good while. Nothing's gone wrong."

"Some things take a while to act," the elder replied gruffly, folding his arms.

"But some people managed to get out of the building fine."

"To get the bodies…" Corran shook his head, but he thought about it. "I think you're right about it not bein' a virus. Lot of spooky shit's been goin' on ever since that murder spree."

"You mean those rumors?" McKenzie frowned. "I dunno about them. I think people are just scared. The killer's still on the loose, after all."

Corran shook his head. "Nah, the things I've heard… It's not what you'd hear from people spooked about some killer." He nervously straightened his hat. "My wife's friend, she swears up and down that her TV was talkin' to her. And my son, ya know, he's in high school, and he told me that in between classes all the lockers in his hall opened at once. Gave one girl a bloody nose and broke some other kid's hand and there were some other injuries. And at that Italian place? On your street? I heard that all the drinks on the tables started fuckin' _boiling_ at once!"

"That could… that could all have a logical explanation," McKenzie said, though he couldn't think of anything.

"Heh. Right." Corran glanced back down the street at the Heights. "Did ya hear about that one guy's body?" he said nervously. "They one they found cut up to shit?"

McKenzie nodded. "Yeah. Slashed up except for that one spot on his face. All neatly: 21121. Townshend, yeah? Fucked-up to die like that."

"Yeah, but did ya hear how they found him?"

"In the apartment, I thought."

"Sorta. He was lying down in the doorway."

"Trying to get away. Poor bastard."

"No, he was… placed that way. All on his back with his arms folded over his chest and legs straight together, like ya'd be in a coffin." A disbelieving laugh. "I heard his damn hair looked like it'd been goddamn _combed_, for fuck's sake." Corran's hand jerked up to his hat, as if he wanted to be sure the hair underneath was still pleasantly disheveled. "Like… he'd been left there for us to pick up."

The younger man raised an eyebrow. He certainly hadn't heard any of that! "You're shittin' me," he said, despite the disturbed look on his partner's face.

"No!" the older man said, a bit angrily. "And when they did move the body, the fuckin' door _slammed_ shut on them." Corran enthusiastically waved one hand through the air, slapping it against the other.

"You _are_ shittin' me," McKenzie retorted.

"It's fuckin' true!" his partner shot back. "Spooky shit is goin' on here. Their quarantine ain't gonna do nuthin' to stop whatever's in there."

"Okay, I said it wasn't a virus, but I think you're taking it a little far with the other options," McKenzie said with a dry laugh.

"Think about it," Corran replied. He glanced back again. "I'm just glad we're all the way over…" He trailed off and abruptly took in a breath.

McKenzie looked over and saw his partner's wincing face. "What's the matter?"

Corran's pained expression was suddenly stricken with terror and he grabbed at his chest through his blue shirt. "Shit… my… McKenzie…" He hunched over. "My fuckin' heart…" he said tightly.

McKenzie's eyes widened. "_Shit!_" He snatched his walkie-talkie off of his belt. He made a hurried call for immediate medical assistance, putting a hand on Corran's back. Corran fell to his knees and let out an anguished cry at the pain in his chest, and McKenzie dropped the walkie-talkie and dropped to his partner's side. "Hang on, man!" he yelled, fumbling for the fallen transceiver.

He picked it up and was about to repeat his request for help, since he had gotten no response, but the speaker suddenly 'skrched' before _screaming_ a piercing white noise. McKenzie gaped, frantically wondering what the hell was wrong with it, but at the same time knowing that was not important. What was important was that no help was coming. The younger officer put an arm around his partner's back and under this armpit and pulled him up. He started dragging him to their cruiser. There was still time. Not everyone had died right off. He only had to get to Saint Jerome's in time, and Corran would be fine; he'd go home to his wife and kids.

As McKenzie helped Corran into the car, he saw movement. Two figures in long black cloaks had emerged from one of the alleyways. They moved forward, obviously intending to break the police barricade.

Torn, McKenzie didn't want to leave his endangered partner. "Hey!" he hollered at the figures. "Get back from that area _now!_ This is a police order!"

Feet from the yellow sawhorse blocking off the street perpendicular to the Heights, both hooded forms stopped and turned. To the left, he saw the unsure face of a young man. Beneath the hood on the right he made out the face of an old woman. She was expressionless at first, simply staring at him with her cold eyes, but when he reprimanded them again, she smiled. She smiled without showing her teeth and her eyes were cold as if he was nothing, he was incidental. Then she said, glancing at his partner heaving in the cruiser's passenger seat, "Better hurry," in a deep, humorous tone that implied it didn't matter how fast McKenzie drove. Then she turned and moved around the barrier, heading for the Heights. The young man, silent, followed her.

McKenzie wanted to call her back, but at Corran's groan he rushed around the car and got into the driver's seat. As he turned the ignition, he tried the car radio so he could let someone know about the breech, but like his walkie-talkie, it wailed loudly in response. He gave a fleeting look at the two people making their way to the banned building, before heading east, lights flashing.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Miranda and Ivan ducked under the yellow tape and walked past the parked cars on their right, now without owners. The old woman stopped, and so did the young man, and she looked up to the left, to a room on the third floor. After a moment, she turned towards her companion and held out her hands to him. He joined hands with her and they both bowed their heads.

Some time passed and they raised their heads and separated. She went to the main entrance and he stayed close behind. She pushed open one of the doors and led him inside. Miranda moved up the stairs to the second floor, to the third floor. Ivan did not stray. They moved into the only wing on the top level. As they approached Room 302, Miranda could feel the power pulsing within. She could practically see it; it made her eyes hurt to just look at the door, like she was staring at the sun. And the noises; strange guttural exultations that crescendoed into pained shrieking howls. She glanced back at Ivan. His jaw was tight, and she got the distinct impression he wanted to grab onto her.

She looked back to the door and drew back the hood of her cloak as she stared at the numbers. Then she bowed her head and with clasped hands offered feverish prayers to God to let her inside, to let her pass, because although she was only Her servant, she knew that she could fulfill the intentions of the Ritual. She whispered for a few minutes, and heard Ivan doing the same, before stopping and taking a breath, and preparing herself.

She was surprised when she looked up. She could feel the strength within the room, but it no longer pained her eyes, and the disturbing growls were replaced by a low hum. But her fear was not quelled. No, her fear grew. God was letting her inside, but she still did not know what was going to happen. Her gaze flickered over to Ivan again; he was still scared, but now he appeared to be able to hold himself on his own two feet.

Miranda put her hand on the knob. It was ice cold. She turned it and pulled it open. Ivan made a small noise behind her, but she remained silent at the site of the apartment, which would have been a normal little home if not for the dried red decay that covered every surface. The power she had felt when the door had been closed now swept through her, chilled her through and through, and she was suddenly overcome with how easily life could be taken away.

Movement from the left, from behind the small divider alongside the kitchen counter to separate the kitchen from the living room. Walter Sullivan, face and blue coat spattered with blood, had raised his head. He turned and saw her and her companion, and though his expression didn't so much as flicker, Miranda's terror increased threefold. She had no doubt that they had disturbed him, and he would kill them.

She was mesmerized until she heard a thump, and if she looked she would have seen that Ivan had collapsed to the hallway's linoleum. He was whispering prayers with his face pressed against the cold tile. When Walter moved away from his spot by the wall and advanced on her, albeit slowly, Miranda threw herself to the carpet in the entryway. On her knees, arms reaching out across the ground, and head bowed, she said, "I come only to serve the Holy Mother! To do as she wishes so that she may purify this world!" The strength she had meant to put in her voice faltered, replaced with tremulous fear.

Slow steps came over to her, the soft sound mingling with Ivan's frantic, tiny voice, but she did not dare to raise her gaze, to look into his face.

"Mother is purified," said Walter, voice low and unerring.

So he had done it. He was the Conjurer. He had succeeded. But the Holy Mother remained concentrated in this room, only ripples of her power rolling over the city.

He spoke again, his voice thundering over her. "You cannot be here." It was, by no means, merely a suggestion that they leave. It was a sentence.

"I am here to serve God!" Miranda protested quickly.

"Mom and I do not need your God."

What? Miranda's fear lessened and her confusion rose, but that confusion was overtaken by memory. Young Walter, she remembered, had in fact thought of the room as his mother. But they had let it go on. "She _is_ God," she found herself saying as she let her head come up from the floor. She still did not look at him. She focused her gaze on his brown shoes, on the thick spots of red on the worn leather, thinking around her fear.

"God… is… Mother?" Walter said ponderously.

Something changed. The balance of power began to shift from the Son to the Priestess.

Miranda found herself looking him in the eye, found that she was speaking to… a child. A child desperate for a mother's love. And though she knew well that this was God, that it was not his mother at all in this room… "Yes, Walter," she said. "Your Mother is God." Thoughts raced through her mind, putting pieces together, planning. "She is God, and you are Her Son. I have come to work with you to help Her."

"Help Her?"

"To bring everything to fruition. To bring Paradise."

"Paradise." He remembered it, she recognized with some relief. He remembered it all.

"Yes. You want to help your Mother, don't you?"

"Of course." The reply was quick.

Miranda slowly rose so that she was sitting on her knees instead of cowering on the floor. "You would like her to not be confined to this room, then?" She had a complete view of him now. It struck her how stoic he was.

"Mom… is the room…"

She shook her head. "You have brought Her into the room. You were confused, Walter. I confess we erred in training you."

Behind her, Ivan was still cringing on the ground, arms over his head, yammering quietly to God, oblivious.

In front of her, Walter's expression finally changed, though slightly. There was a trace of a frown on his lips, and his brows were drawn a bit inward. She saw that he was trying to see if he could trust her.

"Walter," she said, "I know that the Order has made things difficult for you. But we are all sinners. Do not allow that to let you forget the bigger reason behind the Ritual, not just to restore your mother to you, but to bring the Holy Mother to the world, to destroy the Nation of Sin and bring all Children of Good Faith to Paradise." She placed a smile on her lips and gestured to the room. "You have accomplished purifying the Holy Mother, but can you not see that She is restrained?"

Walter said nothing, but he had not killed her, so Miranda continued.

"You surely did not mean to keep Her here? You would not do that to your Mother, surely. You must want Her to be completely free, to thrive, to destroy this Nation of Sin. You must want Her to bring Paradise, for you, for everyone worthy. She must have communicated this to you."

The alteration to his face went away, and for a moment Miranda feared that she had failed, but then he said, "She…"

"Yes?" Miranda prompted.

"She only says to bring him back."

"Him?"

"The Receiver of Wisdom."

Miranda felt excitement swell within her. So the Holy Mother was going to tell them how to empower her. The wheels were already turning. "We shall do it," she said to Walter, and got to her feet.

Walter stared at her, and he nodded. The corners of his lips curved upwards into a serene smile. He would do it for his mother.

By all rights, by all signs of religious devotion and respect, Miranda should have bowed to him. Thought she knew of his history, he was now the Conjurer, and he had obviously been chosen by God. But she did not bow. Somehow, though the Son was unquestionably powerful and dangerous, the authority had shifted to her, and she preferred it that way.

Miranda knelt down and grabbed Ivan by the collar of his cloak. "Up, up!" she urged.

Ivan did as she said, confusion crossing with his frightened features. When he saw Walter again, he immediately ducked his head, but did not resume his feeble post on the ground. Miranda's calm countenance let him know that he was safe.

"There is much to do," Miranda said quietly. "We must return the congregation to Silent Hill for the Crimson Ceremony." She paused, thoughtful. "But there are many preparations to be made first. We must establish ourselves…"

Walter stepped forward, briefly frightening both Miranda and Ivan. But he merely moved past them to the front door and pulled it closed. He stood there for a long moment, with his palm pressed against it, saying nothing. Then he opened the door. It now led to a dim hallway with white-washed concrete walls.

Ivan gaped in fascinated disbelief, while Miranda laughed. She moved past Walter into the hallway and up a staircase to the right. She came to the first floor of a familiar building. There was a door on her right and she opened it and looked outside to confirm her suspicion. They were in the campground on Sandford Street. The spot was ideal to reestablish the Order.

"Amazing," she whispered.

"Mother Miranda…" Ivan had followed her, but there was no sign of Walter. He remained in the room. "I…" The young man gazed around, in awe at their surroundings, at the home he hadn't seen in years.

Miranda put a hand on his shoulder. "There is so much to do. We must prepare! We must resurrect the Receiver, and then we will know how the Holy Mother's Power can be fully realized. Yes… the Realization of the Holy Mother…"

Down in 302, Walter remained in his womb, thinking, staring at a picture of Henry in graduation robes through the ruddy film that covered it. Yes, he would do as Mother said and resurrect the Receiver; he would protect him as Her Prophet and his Chosen.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

McKenzie sat in one of the waiting room's horrendous plastic chairs. An hour ago, he'd nervously bitched to himself about how uncomfortable he was, but now that was none of his concern. The doctor was in front of him, forlornly telling the cop what he already knew. Corran was dead. One of the many deaths that had occurred in the hospital since two nights ago, when Eileen Galvin had died from severe internal hemorrhaging.

"I'm sorry, Officer McKenzie," the doctor was saying. "His heart just gave out. There was nothing we could do."

McKenzie said nothing for a moment, gaze focused on the gleam of the doctor's belt buckle. But then he raised his eyes to the doctor's face and said, "She wasn't even scared."

Once Corran was in the capable hands of the hospital staff, his younger partner had called in to dispatch to report what had happened to the older officer and the two who had broken the police barricade. Not long after, two more officers, the only ones who'd been brave enough (or perhaps foolish enough) to enter the Heights, were rushed into the emergency room. An officer who had arrived with them told McKenzie that before they both collapsed, they had reported to finding no one in the building, although there was one room they could not open. McKenzie knew what room it was. And he knew that they were in there.

"Excuse me?" the doctor said.

"Everybody's terrified of that place now. But she wasn't scared at all. She smiled. She was laughing at me. Like… like…"

The doctor knelt down to look him level in the eyes. "Officer, would you like to speak with a counselor?" he asked softly.

"Like she knew," McKenzie finished. "Like she knew exactly what was going on. Like we deserved it. Like she was immune. Like she had the power."

"Officer McKenzie--"

"And she wasn't crazy. She's fine in there. She's fine."

"I'm going to get a counselor for you. Wait here."

"She's fine…"

* * *

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Everybody say bye to Officer McKenzie! We won't be seeing him again. I don't think so, anyway. I'm sure he doesn't want me meddling with his life further.

To **MLS1984**, yeah, **Literary Alchemist** didn't like Alice either. Well, _I _like her even if she is delusional. (sob)

And well, **Sageowind**, I wish Walter could make it all better, but with him being crazy and all... er... That's not exactly going to happen, but Walter isn't exactly going to make him miserable either. It's all really just outlined or half-formed right now, so we'll see how it goes.

**Please take the time to review**, because I am a pathetic, pathetic, insecure little wormy worm.


	11. Chapter Nine

**Disclaimer:** Give you three guesses at what and who I don't own. :D

**Author's Note:** Yeah so, like, college? Totally takes up a LOT of time. Just in case you couldn't figure that out for yourself. Buh. I bring you the ninth chapter! We return to the angst of Henry and the crazy obliviousness of Walter, with some other things thrown in. (Some review responses follow the chapter.)

* * *

**CHAPTER NINE  
****Congregation**

Camp Nebi was thrumming with excitement. At the daily mass, held in the early hours, of which the Son and the Receiver did not take part, Mother Miranda had happily told her followers that the Holy Mother had finally begun speaking to them through the Receiver the previous evening. Walter had recited the words, perfectly preserved in his memory, to Brother Ivan, who recorded them, and the Order's happy leader had read the transcript to the congregation.

The members of the Holy Mother Sect had gathered in a small stone amphitheatre near the camp's mess hall. The total of their number was forty. There were eleven adults (Ursula and Alice among them), ranging from Miranda's half-century to ten years above Ivan's mere age of twenty. Eight more were in Ivan's generation; they envied his privileged position. Half a dozen were in their teen years, the youngest being thirteen and the eldest, Tamara, seventeen. And in the very first, bottom row of the theatre were the young children, thirteen in all, with six boys and seven girls, one of which was Deirdre, who had been brought back from the Tower not long before the pitch black of night receded into the dull gray of day.

It was hardly an impressive amount of people, even considering those who had not returned to the town for one reason or another. The two other sects, especially the Saint Ladies, were smaller than the head sect, so they did not make up for the low number. But that hardly mattered now; they were no longer struggling to uphold their beliefs. God was with them now; She was all they needed.

"… Paradise is upon us," Miranda finished, her voice low and solemn, but in the silence of her Brothers and Sisters she was perfectly clear. She passed the new scripture to Ivan, who stood beside her in the pit, and he accepted it and carefully replaced it into a thick book. Miranda raised her gaze to the congregation and smiled softly. "The Receiver of Wisdom has passed to us these words, the Words of the Holy Mother. She has recounted our recent sad history. Why?"

No response. They all eagerly sat forward on the concrete levels.

"To remind us that She has been here with us all the long! Through our trials and misconduct, She _has been with us_, Her faithful servants. And to reward our faith, she reminds us of why we are here now. She assures us that Paradise is near, if we continue our patience and wait for the Receiver."

The adults, old and young, nodded. The children in the front stared up at her with big eyes.

"All our waiting and sacrifice is not, and never was, in vain. Yes, we have all experienced pain, but do not let pain lead you from the Path. That's all pain is: a distraction. Distraction leads you astray, leads to temptation, leads you to think that giving in to ­_sin_ will heal you. Temptation has you forget that faith in Her is what will truly heal you, will allow you to regain all you have lost in Paradise. If those you've lost while seeking Paradise are worthy, they shall be waiting there for you." At this, Miranda's eyes fell to the first row, to Deirdre. The girl looked uncomfortable after a long moment, but managed to smile weakly back as Miranda approached the children. Miranda clasped her hands together against her skirt and smiled assuredly down at Deidre, then looked around at all the boys and other girls. "I would like to remind our adventurous little ones that the administrative building is completely off-limits. You are not to go there. I understand your curiosity is enticing, but how is one to be accepted into Paradise if he or she gives into temptation, hm?"

Deirdre hesitated before exclaiming, "But Mother Miranda--"

And here Miranda's calm demeanor became stiff, and she fixed the little blonde with a hard stare. "Deirdre!" she scolded. "After a day in the Tower, have you not learned your lesson? Do you need to go back?"

The other children stared up at Miranda with wide eyes. Deirdre immediately lowered her gaze and shook her head. "No, Mother. I'm sorry."

"No more sneaking?"

"No--"

"Eyes to me."

Deidre looked up. "No more sneaking," she repeated.

Miranda gave a look to the other children, and they all nodded, eyes still wide, and said, "Yes, Mother."

"Good."

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Henry was obviously not as excited to have the Holy Mother in his head as his captors. When he thought back to the day before, about the strange sensation of someone moving through his head, whispering thoughts to the forefront and pressing them forward so that they emerged from his own mouth, it disturbed him. He had barely realized what had happened before Walter took brief leave to inform Miranda. Henry took that time to give up for another day and succumb to sleep on the couch.

Walter didn't wake him until the morning. And again there was the ritual trip upstairs to the bathroom (and again Henry would convince Walter that he didn't need any help, thank you very much not), and once all that business was done, Henry was escorted back to the apartment for breakfast. Today Walter had apparently gotten the food before he had woken Henry up, as he did not leave briefly before having Henry sit on one of the bar stools and enforcing breakfast on him.

Henry ate little. He wouldn't have eaten at all if he didn't think Walter would try to shove something down his throat. The idea continued to be ridiculous, as it wasn't like Henry would die from starvation or dehydration. He would probably just feel like shit-- physically, to match his mood. But, well, Walter just 'loved' him so goddamn much, so he probably forced food and drink on him in an attempt to show how much he 'cared.'

God, this was fucking ridiculous.

Had the Order really warped him this much? Did this happen to them all? Would the children grow up to be like this?

"How… how is Deirdre?" Henry asked, finished picking at the tray of food and nudging it away from him.

Walter took a moment to answer. "You are worried about her?"

Henry frowned. "Miranda sounded like she was beating the shit out of her!" he retorted. "Of course I am!"

"I'm sure she is fine." A sound of tableware clattering. And then again. Walter had moved the tray to somewhere on the kitchen counter.

Hmph. Right. Henry slid off the stool and turned around, though he wasn't really sure where he was going. Should he sit in the living room and do nothing while Walter watched him like a hawk, or go the bedroom and do nothing while Walter watched him like a hawk? He fidgeted, needlessly adjusting his head dressing. Well, he'd rather not be in the _bedroom_ with Walter, lest something… happen. Not that it would really matter where they were, when he thought about it. And he'd really rather not.

But what would that do? His denial wasn't going to help matters. He had to think of some way to respond. But what would be effective? What could he do to stop Walter from…

Walter was quiet, as usual. Henry hadn't heard him move at all, so he must have still been on the other side of the bar. He was fine with that at the moment, considering his thoughts.

He entertained the thought that Walter wouldn't do anything at all. How long had it been? A few days? All Walter had done was to kiss him on the cheek, and give a few affectionate touches (which made Henry's stomach squirm when he thought about them). Walter was being surprisingly passive, or at least more passive than the brunet had expected. Perhaps this was a good sign.

But it _had_ been only a few days.

Henry's hands were warm; he was wringing them nervously. He looked down, saw the fingers of his left hand twist tightly through his clenched right hand, saw…

Saw…

_Saw_.

Henry froze. He looked up. He could see everything. The white of the walls and the darkness of the carpet and the lumps of furniture. And out the windows it was bright the sun was streaming in and everything was white and brilliant and--

Except everything wasn't like that. He _knew_ that, just by the rough feel of the film over the counter, and at that realization everything went dark again, and Henry's head fell and he wrapped his arms around his head and fell to his knees, and Walter was trying to see what was wrong and Henry just wanted him to _go away_ because he had thought it was true so badly.

"Henry."

Henry had started to rock slightly, hands grasping at the roots of his hair.

Again: "Henry." And Walter pried Henry's hands off of his head and held his arms by the wrists. "What's wrong?"

Suddenly Henry was looking at Walter's knees pressing into the long blue coat he wore. But this was the _other_ sight, where he could really see, not that false one. Henry slowly raised his head, and he saw that Walter had ducked his own head to try and get a look at the brunet as if that would decipher what was the matter. Henry looked at Walter without the blond knowing that Henry was looking at him, instead of the other way around as usual. So used to either no expression or just that dead smile, Henry felt odd when he saw the slight crease in Walter's brow. He was worried, actually truly worried. When Henry acknowledged that, everything went to black again.

And Henry would have covered his mouth if Walter didn't have hold of him, but he laughed anyway. Sometimes the laugh would start to smooth out into a wail, but the _ridiculousness_ of the idea, the idea that the psycho actually fucking _cared_, would come back to him. Walter finally let go of him and Henry, still on his knees, bent forward and crossed his forearms on the floor and continued to laugh.

A moment later, the front door opened and closed. Henry was alone. His laughter subsided eventually. Then he allowed himself to fall onto his side, and he just lay there on the floor, cheek pressed into the red-stained carpet, thinking.

Henry couldn't understand why this was happening to him.

And it wasn't just the understandable "oh, why me" way.

Before moving to South Ashfield Apartments, his life had been average. He grew up as an only child in stifling suburbia. His small family-- he had no siblings-- was upper middle class in a sunny neighborhood where all the houses and trees were ordered in neat rows, in the same distance from one to the next, down the streets. The town was safe, the people were friendly, and the schools were excellent, and if you lived there you would expect to be perfectly satisfied.

Like most people, he had his share of childhood damage. While he had a good-natured relationship with his mother, his relationship with his father grew increasingly hostile over the years. His father wanted him to study proper, useful things, while his mother was okay with him pursuing his interest in art. While this didn't help heal the fraying connection between his parents, Henry knew that there were other things the made them pull away from each other. His mother never told him precisely what, but he knew.

"I swear, dear," she had said to him once while sniffling and patting away tears with a tissue, "if it weren't for you, I might've left your father a long time ago."

Henry hadn't known what to think of that. Sometimes it hurt. Other times it didn't. But like many people, as he grew up, he learned to stop caring.

School was fine until high school. "High school is Hell," as they say, which overall was true, but Henry didn't think his experience had been as bad as all that. He was the photographer for the school paper. He had assisted with a mural his senior year. He worked on it with two of his very few friends. He was a quiet boy, and kept away from sports, and had only had one girlfriend. These three qualities, coupled with his tendency not to get dressed in the morning by rolling around in a pile of clothes on the floor, brought upon him the inevitable label of "faggot" for a while. But then the other boys quickly lost interest in his lack of reaction and set upon tormenting someone else. Henry also supposed it helped that despite the fact he was too shy to pursue girls, they all liked him very much, and the other boys didn't want to draw any more attention to him. Henry graduated somewhere in the middle of his class. Then he went to college, and things pretty much went the same; he was quiet and kept to himself, he joined the photography club and took pictures for the campus paper, and avoided his jock roommate like the plague, but this time he managed to lose his virginity to his second girlfriend. Everything was so-so, everything went as it was expected to, even with the surprises.

There was nothing special about him, as far as Henry was concerned. He was skilled at photography, he would admit with a humble smile, but everyone had their talents. That was the extent of anyone's particular individuality: a collection of talents and traits and quirks that when amassed could be assigned only to them. There were a very limited number of acutely exceptional people in the world who climbed above the crowd and made a difference, whether for good or bad. He sure as hell wasn't one of them. He preferred the background; he liked to meld into the wall and watch the people pass by, but never get involved.

Henry wondered how many other terrible things had been shaped by mere accident, circumstance. After all, he had only been chosen for this "honored" position because of where he'd lived. The others, he was fairly sure, had been chosen for Walter's personal reasons. He remembered when Walter had first left him the doll, he had said that Eileen (_Eileen Eileen Eileen_) had given it to him. And Andrew had known him as a child and had definitely made a poor future for himself in hitting the children. Henry remembered descending in the elevator, and being able to make out echoes of Richard's interrogation of the kid; it sounded like he had known him. It was too much of a coincidence to not assume the same for Jasper and Cynthia.

But Henry had never met Walter before the ritual. Not as an adult or as a kid. He hadn't even lived in the same _state_ as South Ashfield until he moved into the Heights. And when he vacationed in Silent Hill as a child with his parents, his mother had certainly been too paranoid to allow her little boy near any strange people.

But then he remembered visiting South Ashfield Heights for the first time. He'd found a vacancy ad in the paper. Nothing really stood out about it, so he didn't really know why it caught his eye. He'd been looking for a place to live, though, so there was no reason to _not_ go check the place out. And when he did, he felt a tie to it that he couldn't explain, and after only fifteen minutes he turned to Frank Sunderland and agreed to be his tenant. Henry had thought that the place had just snagged his artsy side. But now… he couldn't be sure.

His college girlfriend had said to him once, "I just don't know what it is about you, Henry. You're so nice and quiet and shy, but I noticed you right away." Of course, that could have meant nothing, easily could have been just a sweet endearment from a girl who had, for nearly a year, been very much in love with him. Unfortunately, though she had done nothing to offend him, Henry couldn't bring himself to match her feelings. And that was alright, since you couldn't force yourself to love someone any more than you could force someone to love you.

This made Henry think of Walter. And that made him want to go to sleep and stop thinking altogether.

But the floor wasn't all that comfortable, and he didn't feel like moving. That sight, both of them, confused the hell out of him. But the one with the light, with everything as it should be (or perhaps better than it should in the dreary city), was different than his occasional ability to see Walter. Where had this new one come from?

Henry remembered his father talking once about a friend who'd gone off to war-- to 'Nam or Korea, he couldn't remember-- and came back missing an arm. But occasionally he would be able to feel the absent appendage, as if it were still attached, still swinging beside him as he walked. Phantom limb, they called it. His heavenly vision of the apartment had to have been something like that, just his head and nerves and all that inner circuitry messing with him.

He briefly wondered if the other moments of sight had been caused by the same thing. But that had been different than when he could see Walter. He hoped it never happened again. He had really _believed_…

The door opened again, and he recognized Walter's footsteps.

"I have a surprise for you." Normally such a phrase would be said with excitement, but perhaps only a trace of anxiousness was in Walter's even tone.

Henry did not want to know what constituted as a 'surprise' in Silent Hill. "What? A caterpillar with a hookah?" he muttered, the corner of his mouth pressed into the carpet.

"There are no caterpillars here."

Before Henry could even think of a sarcastic reply, he heard a familiar giggle. "… Deirdre?" He pushed himself up onto his knees.

She laughed again, and latched around his chest. "Hi!"

Henry placed his hands on her shoulders. "What are you doing here?"

"Walter brought me," the little girl said happily. "He said it was okay so long as I didn't tell anyone."

Henry could feel Walter's eyes on him, like a puppy hoping to be given a treat. "Well… Well, it's good to know that you're alright," he said, squeezing her shoulders.

"Oh, I'm fine," Deirdre said. "Mother Miranda only yelled at me lots afterwards, and I had to go to the Tower for a day."

Henry froze. "That… that tower?" He thought of the dark corridors and dank cells. Someone walking past a lone round window, crossing through the light, always watching.

"Yes." She sounded sad for a moment, but she shook it off, as children are likely to do. "But I was good, and I learned my verses and passages real good, and Mother Miranda said I could come back." She pulled away and there was a rhythmic thumping sound; she was hopping excitedly. "Ooh ooh! Do you wanna hear me recite? I memorized them really good!"

She sounded so eager for him to hear. "Alright," Henry assented. He was uncomfortable on his knees and shifted so that he was sitting cross-legged.

He heard her take a breath, and imagined her standing before him straight-backed and serious so as to impress him even though he couldn't see her. "I'll say the Prayer to God," she prefaced, then coughed to clear her throat. "Stained by the evils of this world, we hold our sorrows within us," she said, keeping her voice even. "Only you heal us these wounds. Each morning, afternoon, evening, and night, we call out your name and pray for the day of the mirac… miraculous re… real… realization." Faltering over the big words, she began to lose confidence. "I give to you un… unree… un-ree-serve-ed-ly, my body and my eternal soul. Whatever darkness may befall me, I will endear--endure! … with you beside me. As proof of your mir… mir-ac-u-lous power, guide our obedient and willing souls to the Road of Paradise, Oh Lord. We will not…" She paused, took a nervous breath, but failed to start again.

"We will not give in…" Walter prompted, to Henry's surprise.

"We will not give in!" Deirdre said quickly. "We will not give in to the power of temptation as long as we have you in our hearts. Oh, Lord, save us, with your compassion. Oh, Lord, shower us with your blessings. Oh, Lord, favor us with your abundance."

Henry did his best to smile. "That was very good."

"Oh, don't tell Mother Miranda that I messed up!" Deirdre pleaded.

"I won't," Walter replied, and Henry realized that Deirdre was talking to the tall man in the blue coat. He worried for a moment that Walter would betray his word, but then he had the strong feeling that Walter would not lie, especially in front of him.

"I don't like the Tower…" Deirdre said softly.

"I did not like it," Walter agreed, "but if you behave, you will not have to go back."

"None of the children should have to go there," Henry snapped.

"They must learn," Walter responded.

Henry scowled. "That's nice for you to say! After what happened to Andrew!"

"Andrew was chosen by Mother, not by me."

"Right," was the sarcastic reply.

"It's true!" Deirdre jumped in. "It's said in our books! The Holy Mother chose the Twenty-One Sacraments and acted through Her Son's hand!" She tapped Henry on the nose and said seriously, "She chose you. You are the Holy Receiver of Wisdom! You must pay attention to what Sister Alice tells you."

Even the little girl was against him. Henry unfolded his legs and stood up. "I'm glad you're okay, Deirdre," he said, "but if Miranda figures out you've gone missing--"

"This is Free Time," she informed him. "We are allowed to go and play. She thinks I'm with the others."

"If she finds out you're here, you'll be in big trouble," Henry said.

"Please don't send me away!" She said it so pleadingly that it took Henry aback. "Please? We don't have our lesson with Sister Alice for another hour! No one will know!" As if she sensed further resistance, she buried her face into his stomach and clenched her hands into his shirt.

_Oh, jeez…_ Henry sighed and tousled her hair. "Okay, okay, but only for an hour!"

She sniffled happily and laughed. Henry wondered why it was so important to her.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

The hour was mostly spent with Deidre happily curled up in Henry's lap, talking about this or that and sometimes asking him questions. It went by quickly, and Walter interrupted them to be sure that she made it to Sister Alice's lesson on time.

Upon descending the stairs down into the administrative building's basement, Walter spotted a small, black creature, its fur sleek. He wondered where it had been before and if it had seen him with the girl.

He was reminded of that one cat, years ago. Garland's pet shop. Trapped behind wire mesh on a shelf. All he wanted to do was pet it, but somehow it wound up on the floor, grating shrieking against the concrete and the panicked mewl of the cat ringing from wall to wall.

Walter observed the cat a moment longer. It stared back at him, eyes glinting from the light that managed down the staircase. The man in the blue coat slowly got down on his knees and apathetically held out his hand. Nothing else happened for a few seconds, then the cat padded over and rubbed its head into Walter's palm.

Walter smiled.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

The door opened and closed. Walter was back.

Henry rubbed his arm uncomfortably. "Thank you for bringing her," he muttered.

"You were worried about her."

"Yeah."

"There are very few things I would not do for you."

Henry swallowed, noting that his discomfort increased. This was insane. How could the man go from eager to kill him one day, and then completely devoted the next? He was… he was like a child. "I'm tired," he finally said. And it was true. He turned and made his way to the bedroom, feeling a satisfaction when he reached out to check his position and found that hallway wall. He was sure he was near the bedroom door when he heard it open. He stopped.

"_What_… are you doing?"

"I am to stay with you, for when the words come."

Walter. In the bedroom with him. No. No. "Uh, how about I just let you know?"

"… That is a lie."

"You're a sharp one," Henry growled. "Look—Ah!"

Walter had very unceremoniously shoved him into the room. Henry stumbled and bumped into the low bureau. He heard the globe shuffle across its smooth top and Walter close the door. His heart beat wildly. An unwelcome scenario played out in his mind, and he recovered his balance. He was tense, muscles ready to give all they could.

"Go to sleep," was all Walter said.

"No."

"You said you were tired."

"Like I could sleep with _you_ in the room."

"I don't understand."

"I sleep by myself," Henry snapped.

Walter did not answer for a long while. "I do not want to make you uncomfortable."

Henry laughed, and he regretted it; it agitated a coming headache. "Oh, yeah, my comfort is your utmost concern."

"I expect it won't bother you in time."

"What fuckin' part of 'not a chance in hell' do you not understand?" Henry snapped, bringing his hand up to his forehead.

"Don't be angry." It wasn't exactly a command or a plea, more like a suggestion, but it still had that underlying tone to it, no matter how slight. That tone that so much wanted Henry to accept him.

"Please just go," Henry muttered. His head was really hurting now. He didn't want to get pissed again and really give himself grief. Walter answered him, but Henry was distracted by a sound. It was like a low hum; it was familiar. What was it?

"Are you okay?" Walter was saying.

God, his head hurt. And that noise! It was getting louder, and it sounded like a voice, like a low voice murmuring in his ear while the claw cradled him-- Henry's breath hitched. It was happening again.

"What is She saying?" Walter said with eagerness.

Henry put a hand on either side of his head and tried to block it out. He hadn't known what to expect the day before, so it came easily, but now he fought against the voice. He tried to ignore it, to think of something else, to concentrate on anything but her voice, but it persisted. It scratched through his thoughts, pressed its dead lips to the cracks and forced its words through. And Henry tried so hard, but his mental walls were hardly like concrete. They were more like quickly flaking plaster.

He lasted all of five minutes.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Ursula was careful not to catch her bag on the door frame as she slowly pulled the door shut behind her. With a quick glance around the campground-- no one in sight-- she hurried to Sandford Street and quickly set off in the direction of South Vale. She didn't worry very much about anyone seeing her leaving because of the fog.

She was one of the few who owned a car. Since The Order lived in the town and cared little for the outside world and the people in it, they rarely left Silent Hill. They kept a few vehicles around for emergencies, however, and to get food and other supplies. But Ursula was not leaving to help The Order in any way.

She had been considering this for some time. After seeing Miranda beat poor Deirdre, she had made her decision. This couldn't possibly be what God wanted for Her followers. Oh, she understood how all these strict discipline and punishment could bring about goodness, but there was something indefinably wrong about all of it. Especially the Receiver of Wisdom, that poor blind man who wanted nothing more than to leave, but would be forced to tell Miranda how the Holy Mother could come to power.

Ursula couldn't stand by and let it happen. But she couldn't do anything about it either. She did, however, know of someone who could, if only she could convince her.

She wasn't far from the intersection with Nathan Avenue when she got the sense that she was being followed. She stopped, turned round, but the fog was thick as usual and she could see no one. She listened, but there was only the blood rushing through her ears, and then her heels clacking on the roadway and her bag brushing her leg as she continued to walk. She took a deep breath of the moist, dank air and focused on getting to the car. No one knew she had left. She'd made sure of it. Yet she could feel someone, something watching her, always close behind.

It was like this for ten minutes. Ursula never stopped again, but the prickling feeling only got worse as she became sure that she was being followed. She searched her mind for some kind of excuse she could give when she was finally confronted. They would look through her bag no doubt, find the changes of clothing and the money and the information she'd copied from documents in Miranda's office. What could she possibly say?

The car began to take shape in the mist as she reached the bridge over the inlet. The old heap had been parked just at the bridge's end since the day before when Ursula had feigned a break-down after a trip south of town; she didn't want a starting car engine to announce her departure. She ran the last few yards to it, fishing the keys out of her pocket, desperately searching for the correct one. She found it, and tried to thrust it into the lock in her panic. She missed, scratching the paint around the metallic circle, and then there it was, a loud sudden noise, right behind her.

A meow.

Ursula turned around to see a black cat observing her curiously. She was partially relieved, but remained on edge. One of the few things anyone could explain was the presence of these felines in the town. Miranda seemed to like them, but there was something about them that prickled the hair on Ursula's arms.

The cat approached her, rubbed up against her leg. Ursula made no move to pet it. She stepped away. It reared up on its hind legs and placed its front paws on her leg, looking up at her and mewing again, as if curious.

"Get away!" Ursula hissed.

Then the cat hissed in retort, and its claws came out and dug through her skirt and into her calf. She cried out and kicked her leg, and with a tear of fabric the creature was tossed away.

Ursula spun back to the car and unlocked the door. Pointedly not looking back at the animal again, she got inside, set her bag on the passenger seat, and turned the key in the ignition. She sped away back the way she came, but intending to stay on Nathan in order to get to Brahms.

The cat sat on the road and watched the car get swallowed up in the fog. It dipped its head and picked up the torn bit of black fabric in its teeth. Then with a swish of its tail, it stood and slunk away.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

"Mother Miranda was very happy."

Henry sat on the bed. His forearms rested on his thighs, and his hands were loosely entwined between his knees.

"We are on the way to Paradise."

Henry didn't say anything. Walter was kneeling on the floor in front of him.

"This would not be so difficult for you if you just realized…"

Walter grasped Henry's hands in his own. Henry didn't see the point in removing them.

They stayed that way for a long while, hopeful and hopeless.

* * *

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Likey? Yus? Nu? Do tell, good readers!

**SaddenedSoul**: Hm... Well, I still feel bad, so I see if I can fit something in anyhow. (And you are so mean to McKenzie! Gaspy!)

**MLS1984**: Literary Alchemist keeps telling me to read your stuff. And one day I will come across the time. (cries)

**Alice White**: Good questions, and they shall all be answered in time!

**Everyone else**: OMG I LOVE YOU!


	12. Chapter Ten

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Silent Hills 1-4, or any of the characters within. So on and so forth.

**Author's Note:** Woo, I finally got it done. I only had to finish my finals first. :D I think I did a good job on those, though. I think. Oh, and a few declarations: 1. No, the name Deirdre has no significance. I think it's pretty, though. Hee hee. 2. There are multiple cats. 3. I know Cynthia met Walter, but Henry doesn't know that. 4. If I didn't answer your question... Shhhh... (shifty eyes)

Thanks again to Literary Alchemist for being my beta bub!

Anyway, Chapter Ten! Away we go!

* * *

**CHAPTER TEN  
****Adoration**

"Joey Romero!" Elizabeth shrieked, spinning around and yanking her skirt out of his hands. She pushed the fabric down flat over her thighs and fixed him with an angry glare.

"Elizabeth Glynn!" he hollered mockingly back at her, jumping away from the swipe of her hand.

She reached for him again, but he stepped aside and she sprawled to the ground. Now with her dress stained with dirt, she gritted her teeth and, on her knees, pointed viciously at him and cried, "You're going to _Hell_, Joey!"

"Ah, tell it to Mother Miranda!" he shot back, sticking out his tongue.

The other children were able to laugh away from the disciplinary threat of adults' hands. Elizabeth's condemnation, so palpable from the elder Brothers and Sisters, now seemed just silly, exaggerated.

"I'll tell it to your _face_!" she growled, getting to her feet and chasing after the mischievous boy, who had already set off through the trees.

Eager to see the outcome, the other children chased after them, forgetting that their chaperone had promised to return soon.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

On the seventh day, Henry awoke on his own. He wasn't sure if he was awake at first. He imagined it was possible that he could be dreaming. But a dream in which he still couldn't see would be rather odd, and he sure as hell felt awake. It was easier to be sure with Walter around.

Maybe Walter was around, actually. Henry sat up slowly and listened, but didn't hear so much as a quiet breath. He slid out of bed, stretched his tense muscles, and popped his stiff joints, not feeling any satisfaction.

He went out into the hall, and it was then that he did hear something. Not to the right, past the hallway and in the living room or kitchen, but to his left, in the room he had uncovered with the pickaxe ages ago. He stepped over to the side of doorway and pressed his back against the bit of wall there, listening to the soft voice in the room. He could barely make out what Walter was saying; it was so muttered and quick, but he caught a few words, like, "Mother" and "Paradise" and "sin" and "salvation," and something about "Valtiel." Henry suddenly remembered the table he had seen in there before and recognized with his hands just a few days ago. It clicked: a prayer at an altar. Henry realized that Walter must do this every morning before waking him up.

It was suddenly quiet. And then Walter said, voice smooth and loud from within the room, "Would you like to pray?"

Henry couldn't help but jump a little. Of course Walter would know he was there. He reflexively wrapped his arms around himself. "No."

"Mother will give you comfort if you ask."

Henry smiled a little. "I'm sure."

He heard Walter shift around, and then footsteps as he walked over to the doorway.

"You may pray with me any time you like," Walter said. When he got no answer, he asked cordially, "How are you?"

"Great," Henry grunted, tipping his head back against the wall and pressing a hand to his forehead, as if the warmth from his palm would soothe the pangs.

"I need to wash your face."

"Whatever."

The morning routine went on as usual, with Walter trying to be as delicate as possible with hands that were awkward in anything but pain and Henry gripping the seat of the stool he sat upon, gritting his teeth at the pain in his eyelids, the flaps covering nothing but the holes in his head, and probably not even that eventually. He expected they would start to sag, or maybe turn inwards into his sockets.

When it was done, Walter told him, "The blindfold can stay off starting today."

"Joy."

A pause, before he asked, "Would you like anything?"

Henry didn't bother with an answer.

"You can talk with me if you like."

Talk? What, was this _Oprah_ or something? "Talk," Henry repeated.

"If it helps you."

This wasn't Walter's idea, Henry knew. Just something else he'd been told to do-- by Miranda, no doubt-- in an attempt to make him, the prisoner, more comfortable. As if a simple discussion would send away all of Henry's reservations and make him compliant as the Receiver of Wisdom and as Walter's…

"I can't fucking breathe in here," Henry groaned, ducking his head.

Walter frowned. Mother Miranda had said it would help Henry if they talked, but Henry didn't want to talk. Walter supposed he couldn't blame him. He remembered when they put him in the Tower, all those years ago, he never wanted to talk to anybody, especially Jimmy Stone when the sect leader came to visit. He only felt better once he was out, back home at Wish House with Bob and the other children. Even if they weren't supposed to leave the immediate grounds, at least they could go outside and play, or even risk punishment by sneaking out.

Henry heard Walter leave the kitchen area, his shoes padding against the carpet in the hall that led straight back to the altar room. One of the doors opened, and a moment later Walter returned and prompted him to get up. Henry stood, nervous, but then he felt something light draped around his shoulders, and cloth slid around his backside. He frowned, but stayed still as Walter was doing something around his neck. He was tying a knot, Henry realized; Walter was putting a cloak on him.

"What's going on?" Henry asked, as Walter pulled a hood over his head.

"Shh!" Walter hushed him. There was the sound of the door opening.

Henry let himself be led up the stairs. He tried to follow with his mental map. They reached the next floor and walked a few more steps, then stopped. A door opened, and Henry felt a slight breeze.

"We can't stay out long," Walter said quietly, tugging on Henry's arm.

But Henry refused to follow. Had he eyes, he would have looked at Walter as if he were insane, an expression the other man truly deserved. Walter was actually taking him outside? He wasn't supposed to do that. Of course, Henry wasn't sure exactly what Miranda could do to either of them for punishment. The question of how much authority she really had over Walter sprung to mind, along with the concern of exactly what would happen when he was alone with Walter in some unknown location.

"Come," Walter said, pulling him more forcefully outside.

Henry heard and felt the crunch of leaves under his sandals. The door clicked closed behind them and Henry took a deep breath of the damp, but fresh air. A chilled breeze brushed by them.

"Before she sees," Walter said as he led Henry away by the arm at an even pace, just steady enough so that the brunet wouldn't trip over any branches or rocks or, more likely, his own two feet.

Henry knew that he was justified in being worried about Walter stealing him away somewhere, albeit temporarily, but he couldn't help feel some contentment at not being in any of those damn rooms anymore, especially 302. And just Walter doing this was in obvious disregard of Miranda's instructions. Henry wouldn't call it rebellion, exactly, since it seemed to him that Walter obeyed her for reasons other than acknowledging that she had an authority over him, so there was nothing for him to fight against. The deluded man was just trying to make Henry comfortable while avoiding Miranda's raving at the same time.

Walter guided him through a forest. Henry could tell because he had bumped into some kind of tall pole, and when he put his hand against it he felt the bark and realized it was a tree. Henry went along with Walter's navigation for an amount of time he couldn't discern; it could've been five minutes, or perhaps half an hour. Regardless, when Walter stopped it was abrupt, and he didn't say anything. The blind man assumed they had gone far enough.

Henry pulled his arm out of Walter's grip. The other man didn't try to grab him again, as Henry feared he would. There was nowhere for him to go anyway. He just wanted to stand here, alone in his head, listen to the quietness of the forest, and pretend he was somewhere else. The loathed blindness made it easy. He could just tell himself that his eyes were closed and he was in the woods near his childhood home back in Connecticut. He was just taking in a moment of peace, and soon he would open his eyes and go back to the house and have a meal with his parents. There would be laughter and conversation, not insistent lessons, and his mind would be free to work as he willed it, with no intrusions of the supernatural.

Walter watched Henry stand amongst the trees. He noted how he man's head angled back towards the sky and how his chest rose and fell evenly. The corners of Walter's mouth quirked up. He felt he had done a good thing. He preferred to see Henry at peace like this.

Hopefully he would find that peace in Mother, soon.

There was a sudden round of shouts and laughter. Running footsteps came from the surrounding trees towards the clearing. The thrashing of leaves and shouting of small voices stopped as the children saw the two adults and realized who they were.

Henry gravitated towards them. He felt a hand on his arm again.

"I did not know the children play here," Walter said nervously.

The gasps and whispers of the children reached Henry's ears. He couldn't tell how many there were. _Too many_, the thought to himself and frowned, thinking of Deirdre's cries.

"We should get back."

Henry shook Walter's hand away and took a few steps towards the small voices. He wasn't sure why. He wanted to do something, to gather them all up and get them the hell out of here, but he couldn't. They were stuck here like him.

The leaves crunched around him and he realized the boys and girls were surrounding him, still speaking to each other in low, cautious tones. Walter said nothing.

"Um… hi," Henry said, turning his head left and right at all the small voices. He suddenly wished he still had his blindfold on. Even if he couldn't see them, he didn't want them to stare at his eyelids if they were as swollen and bruised as they felt.

A girl with blonde pigtails stared at him from his left. She was the only child who had said nothing when they all came across their living martyrs. "Hi," Deidre said with a giggle.

Henry recognized her voice and smiled. He kneeled down. "Deirdre." She launched herself into his chest and he embraced her.

Encouraged that one of their own was already familiar with the Great Receiver of Wisdom, the children crept forward. Some of them dared to reach out and touch his arm or his knee. When Henry chuckled in amusement, they felt encouraged and began to ask him questions.

"What's it like not having any eyes?" one boy asked. His voice was close; he was standing right in front of Henry and peering at his face.

"He doesn't _need_ eyes," another boy snapped. "The Holy Mother and Her Son guide him."

"Well, uh, eyes are nice," Henry said. Deirdre insistently pulled at his arm and he curled his hand around her fingers.

"That looks like it hurts," a girl commented, her tiny voice brimming with scared concern.

"It's alright," Henry told her.

"Yeah," chimed in the boy who had spoken up first. "Don't be such a sissy, Elizabeth."

"Shut _up_, Joey!" the girl retorted.

Henry couldn't help but laugh a little, and it struck the children quiet for a moment. Then, encouraged even more, they gathered tighter around him.

"What's it like to die?" Elizabeth asked in awe.

Henry swallowed. What a question. "Well… Well, it…" he fumbled for an answer, while another girl, giggling, hid beneath his cloak from one of the boys.

"We should go back inside," Walter said, still anxious. He was standing off to the side, staring at the children gathered around Henry.

Henry didn't want to go back inside. He'd been inside for far too long. "Just a bit longer," he insisted.

Another voice felt differently. "WALTER SULLIVAN!"

Walter made a small gasp of surprise that was close to fear. "Mother Miranda…"

Henry could hear her determined footsteps crunching through the leaves. Her tone was like a mother scolding a child. "What on earth is going on here!"

"We were… getting air," Walter said lamely.

"You _know_ that the Receiver of Wisdom cannot leave the Holy Mother's domain unless absolutely necessary!" Henry could picture her shaking a finger in the blond man's face. Then she turned her disapproval on the children, still hanging all over Henry. The girl beneath his cloak quickly slipped out, though she stayed close to him, and Deidre pulled her hand away. "Children!" Miranda snapped. "Leave the Receiver be!"

One child made the mistake of saying in bewilderment, "But he likes us."

"_Excuse me_?" Miranda growled. "Don't backtalk me! You'll all be sent to the Tower!"

The children scattered at this, heading back in the direction of the camp even before Miranda raved for them to return to the supervision of the congregation.

Henry stood up and scowled. "You can't send them there!"

The leaves crunched again, and Miranda's voice was in his face. "You be quiet!" She growled in frustration. "Ugh! Why do you insist on causing all the trouble you can!"

"I just wanted some goddamn space or air or… or something!" Henry shouted back at her. He cried out when her hand grabbed his hair and yanked his head down.

"I don't care what you want!" she snapped, and then let him go, but not before cuffing him in the head.

"Ahh!" God _damn_ her! His head hurt enough as it was! He lashed out and wound up shoving her in the shoulder. "_I am not a fucking child_!"

"Henry," Walter spoke up, his voice suddenly between the two. "Let's go back."

Miranda spoke again, this time to Walter. "If you don't keep him in line, I'm going to have to separate you! What do you think your Mother thinks of this?"

Silence. Walter apparently hadn't thought of that.

Miranda tutted. "I am disappointed in you. Take him back right this instant. Then come straight to my office."

More silence, then Henry's arm was grabbed and he was being dragged back through the leaves, back to the main building.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Walter had said nothing all the way back to the room. Henry supposed he felt humiliated, not only by the way Miranda treated him, but because he hadn't given very much thought to what his "mother" would think of removing her prophet from her temple. But Miranda… Henry was sure that her disciplinary attitude had affected him more. After all, "Mother" didn't speak to him anymore, so how could Walter be sure of her thoughts on anything? It was… sad, really.

Henry couldn't believe it. As each day went by, he was actually feeling bad for Walter Sullivan.

Well, it wasn't that unbelievable.  
(_I told you we shouldn't have a baby, didn't I!_)  
He had felt bad for him before when he saw him as a hopeful boy,  
(_Oh, shut the hell up! You can't blame it all on me!_)  
when he'd found his visage bound and strung up and accompanied by the ghostly words of his abandoning father,  
(_Anyway, let's get outta here... I can't stand it anymore..._)  
when he thought he was watching him die.  
(_If that super hears him, we're in trouble. There's something about that guy... I just don't like the look of him..._)  
Henry clearly rememberedstanding over the Conjurer's fallen form, how Walter had looked up into the light and futilely reached for it,  
(_Hurry up -- get packed!_)  
and with all his remaining energy and subdued desperation had called, "Mom? Mom…" before everything left him.  
(_Stupid little crybaby..._)

Henry pulled back his hood as Walter shut the apartment door behind them. Then Walter was in front of him, untying the knot at his throat. His fingers fumbled at the interwoven string, giving Henry time to decide.

"Hey, look…" Henry hesitated, but he went on. "I didn't know it was such a big deal." He paused again when the knot came undone and the cloak slipped away. "Thanks for taking me out there."

One of Walter's hands was suddenly around his wrist, and its partner brushed against Henry's face. "You're welcome."

Henry had stilled in surprise, but he turned his face away and tugged his hand out of the other man's grip.

There was a rustling sound as Walter picked the cloak off the floor and draped it over the counter bordering the kitchen. "I must go see Mother Miranda."

Henry snorted. She was undoubtedly just going to scold him some more.

"Henry."

"Hm?" Henry tilted his head up, as it sounded like Walter was right in front of him. And then the other man's hands were on either side of his jaw, and a warm, moist pressure was against his lips. After a bewildered moment, the pressure and the hands were gone.

"I'll be back later."

Henry finally opened his mouth and took in a breath, and the door opened before: "YOU _SON OF A BITCH_!"

Walter didn't say anything. He wisely closed the door and was locking it just as he heard a bang from the other side as Henry purposefully slammed into it. Then several more slams, likely from the livid blind man's fists.

* * *

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

I dedicate that smooch to Sageowind, 'cause I got the feeling she was looking forward to something like that. And who doesn't appreciate a little fanservice, eh?

Tell me if you like the kids. I think they're adorable, even Joey. (You get extra points if you caught the easter egg, by the way.)

Good luck to any fellow college kids who ain't done their finals yet. Godspeed!


	13. Chapter Eleven

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Silent Hill in its various forms.

**Author's Note:** Finally I get back to this story. Bah. School and work got distracting. And then I was playing RE4. RE4 is awesome. I need to play RE2 again (after I find it OMG WHERE DID IT GO). I need to buy RE1 and Nemesis and Veronica now. I need to write an in-character Leon/Ada fic. I... need to end this author's note. Read on.

* * *

**CHAPTER ELEVEN  
Interaction**

Earl had told Sandra that this was a stupid idea. New England was practically in a panic. Silent Hill, Maine and Ashfield, Massachusetts had exploded with unexplainable activity-- activity that was most certainly supernatural, no matter what the authorities were saying in a feeble attempt to calm everyone down. Of course, while the Ashfieldites were cowering in frightened confusion as their normally ominous city presented them with a different kind of danger, Earl felt that the displaced Silent Hill residents had it worse. They had been chased out of their own town and were living makeshift lab camps not too far away. After the mysterious heart failures in Ashfield, talk of biological weapons quickly sprung up and the terrified people of Silent Hill were quarantined.

Well, maybe they weren't that terrified. Earl thought they'd probably been more surprised than scared. For nearly twenty years now Silent Hill was known for its choking fog, a high number of supernatural occurrences, and a large amount of disappearances. The vanishings were attributed by police to the drug ring uncovered in the resort town several years ago, but it was telling that the disappearances stayed at a steady rate, and there was very more often than not no link from the people to the drugs.

"It's dangerous to discount supernatural causes just so you can feel more secure," Sandra had said to him once after he read an exposé from a regional magazine aloud to her.

Sandra had taken Silent Hill up as a pet cause not long after they'd both graduated from Brahms Community College. They had lived in the strange town for about ten years, documenting everything they could. Hell, Sandra had set up an entire room for all the files they created. It was daunting; Earl had to ask what she expected to come of it, if she thought she could save a place that was an obvious gateway to the other side. She said she wasn't sure exactly what they would accomplish, but no one ever got anywhere through ignorance.

When Silent Hill forced its residents out, Earl and Sandra had already been miles away at a supernatural studies convention in another state. They had given up their chance to present their findings at a panel to rush back to Maine, and by the time their car crossed the state border, the town's residents were already under quarantine. Earl and Sandra smartly avoided the police. The last thing they wanted was to be kept for testing for an ailment they knew didn't exist.

And Sandra wanted to see in person what Silent Hill had become.

"I can't believe we're doing this," Earl had said to her in the hotel, even though he was attaching a flashlight to his belt as he spoke. "Do you realize how dangerous this is?"

"I have to see it," she insisted. "We didn't do all that research just to have the feds handle the whole thing. Clumsily at that!"

Earl snatched their slim voice recorder off the bureau. "People have died--"

"In Ashfield," she interrupted, loading film into her camera and stuffing a couple more rolls into her backpack. He knew she had more batteries in there too along with an extra flashlight and various other supplies.

"What about that fire?" he countered. "They found that Gein guy. Plus I heard they found someone in that tower too."

"We won't be going near the Wish House site."

"Sandra--"

"We can _do_ something, Earl!" she snapped. "We have the information; we just have to apply it."

"How?" he asked starkly.

"I don't know yet, but I'm not going to let this slip by." She zipped up her corduroy jacket and gave him a cool look. "You don't have to go. I'm willing to go by myself."

He sighed. "Don't play that game. You know I won't let you go alone."

She looked away and pulled her brown hair back, tying it into a short ponytail. "I know," she mumbled.

"But will you promise me something?"

"What?" She grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder.

"At the first sign of trouble, no hero play. Let's just get out of there."

She stared at the wall and adjusted her pack's strap. "... Alright."

"This is different than what we're used to. What we know may not apply at all."

"Okay."

"Sandra?"

She looked over at him and smiled. "I heard you, Earl." She moved over to him and gave him a kiss. "Let's go."

The situations you put yourself in when love was involved.

Earl peered through the fog at the trees, the afternoon sun illuminating not much more than mist. They had approached the town from the southeast, as opposed to the northwest, where Wish House had been. He had thought that the cops would stop them before they even set foot in the town, but the boys in blue had been eerily absent. It made him nervous, and he told Sandra so, but she just considered it a lucky break. They struck out into the forest from Pleasant River. It wouldn't be long before they crossed the border into Silent Hill. Maybe they had crossed it already. Earl's sense of time was never very good, and he kept getting distracted by a sound here, a bit of movement there, and the occasional flash of Sandra's camera.

Earl finally realized that he hadn't seen her flash in a bit. In fact, he couldn't see Sandra. His heart seemed to rattle in his chest. He took a breath to call out to her, but suddenly his chest constricted, because he knew that would be a Stupid Idea. He just knew. They weren't alone out here.

The bag was dead weight. He slowly set it on the ground. He needed to find Sandra-- quickly-- and get the fuck out of here.

He abandoned the pack and crept through the mist and the trees, listening for Sandra's light troddings and looking for her camera's flash. It felt like ages as he searched, blind in the fog. He couldn't see her, couldn't hear her. He couldn't hear anything but his own footsteps and the rapid thumping in his chest, not even a breeze filtering through the trees. It was so quiet, so goddamn quiet. Earl suddenly had the feeling, the feeling of Too Late.

The hand that settled on his shoulder was heavy-- _dead_, he immediately thought-- and he froze. Running was futile. He could barely see a thing, and just as he had known that they should never have come here in the first place, he knew that he wouldn't make it more than a few yards.

He turned, although he didn't want to, and found himself looking up at a blank angular face with scraggly straw-colored hair. Earl took a step back, as if repelled by the blood-spotted blue coat, and his foot bumped into something, and he looked down, and Sandra's neck was black and crushed and jammed at a hard angle. He hadn't even looked up before large, powerful hands encircled his throat and _squeezed_, the thumbs pressing against his trachea until it snapped and something else snapped and then that was it.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

The children played as if the sun was shining. For them, in this town, this realm blessed by God, the burning joy of She was prominent even when muted by the clouds that had settled around them. The fog held them, shielded them from the outside world that was full of sin, sin so subversive that it was only after it ate away at them that they would realize they were in the belly of the Beast. So they enjoyed God's town, the preliminary to Paradise.

After the episode with the Receiver of Wisdom and the Son, the children were restricted to playing in the wide dirt expanse that lay between the several activities buildings and the road. Several of the children kicked up dust in their game of tag. Joey and another boy had a swordfight with sizeable sticks. Deirdre and Elizabeth sat off to the side while the former played with the latter's hair. Three girls played with a jump rope, chanting a song of their own invention.

_A serpent for salvation  
__And a reed for joy!  
__God made a world  
__For ev'ry girl and boy!_

_But sinners with  
__Corruption made it swell!  
__When Paradise_ _comes  
__God'll_ _banish them to Hell!_

A form emerged from the fog in the distance. The children fell quiet as they recognized the blue coat of the man they had seen earlier in the day, the Conjurer, the Son. He walked steadily past the supplementary edifices, straight back towards the administration building, seeming not to notice them, but he was a mere few feet from the building when he stopped. He turned his head and gazed upon the children, who stared back in awe. He slipped inside, and the boys and girls couldn't help but let their dazed eyes linger for just a bit longer before finally looking away.

All games had apparently ended with his appearance. "What should we play now?" asked one of the girls who'd been jumping rope.

"I'm _tired_ of playing," said a boy, out of breath.

Another one of the jump rope girls leaned towards Deidre, who was braiding Elizabeth's hair. "Deidre, tell us about the Receiver!" she asked eagerly. The others nodded and voiced their agreement, looking towards her expectantly.

She giggled. "Okay, okay."

The children gathered around her. Elizabeth rose her eyes to the sky, as if she would be able to look at Deirdre over her own head. Deirdre spoke to them with soft excitement.

"The Son protects the Receiver of Wisdom," she said. "They have a sacred bond forged by the Holy Mother Herself."

"Is the Receiver really… a nonbeliever?" one of the other girls asked.

Deirdre nodded sagely, weaving the brown strands. "He told me himself."

Joey frowned. "But why would a sinner be our prophet?"

Elizabeth scowled at him. "Haven't you been paying _any_ attention to Mother Miranda?"

"You're ugly," Joey muttered back.

She folded her arms in a huff and stared straight ahead.

"Sister Alice is teaching him about the Holy Mother and everything," one of the other boys said. "He will believe in no time."

"Even if he doesn't," Deirdre said, "remember that She loves all of her children. We shouldn't be arr… arroo…"

"Arrogant," Elizabeth spoke up, shooting Joey a look.

"Yeah, that. We shouldn't think we're better just because he doesn't know everything about the Holy Mother."

"Like Tamara," one of the others said.

All the children exchanged knowing glances. Deirdre nodded. Tamara was infamous among the other children for her temper, especially when it came to discussions or situations involving nonbelievers.

The youngest girl, almost five, scooted closer to Deirdre. "What about the Son? What's he like?"

"Were you scared when he came and got you?" a boy said timidly.

"A little," Deirdre admitted, tying off the braid with a rubber band she had in her pocket. "I was afraid he was mad at me for taking the Receiver from the temple." She started on the second braid.

"But we saw the Son with the Receiver outside just earlier," Joey said, narrowing his eyebrows.

"Well then he _obviously_ wasn't mad at her," Elizabeth snapped.

Deirdre went on before Joey could reply. "The Son is very quiet. He didn't tell me where we were going until I asked. Henry-- I mean, _the Receiver_ wanted to see me and make sure I was alright."

"I don't think Mother Miranda would like that," one of the girls said, frowning.

"Maybe not, but the Son thought I should be there, so…" Deirdre shrugged. "He did what the Receiver asked."

Two of the girls looked at each other and giggled. One of them said, "Because the Son and the Receiver… The Holy Mother joined them."

Deirdre giggled. "I did see shows of affection."

The children murmured to each other at this. The two girls giggled again, and Joey rolled his eyes at them.

"Have you been chosen for something, Deirdre?" the youngest girl asked. "Do you think that's why they let you in the temple?"

Deirdre tied off Elizabeth's second braid. "I don't know. Maybe."

"I think he just has a connection with you," said one of the boys.

"Well, obviously," chimed in Joey. "Her--"

Sister Alice appeared in the doorway of a nearby crafting building and smiled at them. "Children, it's time for the sewing circle. Come now."

They all got up and crowded into the cabin. After they sat down at the four tables (Elizabeth made sure she was nowhere _near_ Joey), one of the boys asked, "What are we doing today?"

Their teacher smiled at them and reached into a box atop the desk at the head of the room. She pulled out a small black dress and set it down to her left, and then took out a robe of similar size and placed it on the right. "The sisters have made each of you a ceremonial garb for the Realization, but as there are so many other preparations to be made, you will put on the finishing touches."

The children were already talking amongst themselves. "We really get to go?" Elizabeth asked excitedly.

Alice nodded. "We couldn't leave you behind!" she chuckled. "Mother Miranda decided that we should all be there for the coming of Paradise."

"What… what's gonna happen there?" Deirdre spoke up, not as enthusiastic as the others.

Alice softened her smile. "We're not quite sure exactly yet, but the Holy Mother has told the Receiver that there shall be more sacrifices."

The children hushed at this, staring at her with wide eyes.

The teacher looked from one to the other. "Yes, I know. But don't be frightened. Some things, even things we don't like, are necessary for God and Paradise."

* * *

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Man. Henry wasn't even in this chapter. I am so mean to him.

Next part is almost done, so hopefully it won't take so long...


	14. In the past 2

**Disclaimer:** So, like, I _totally_ don't own this video game franchise thing that's called, like, Silent Hill, you know? Like, you know... whatever.

**Author's Note:** Holy crap, a week and another update? Gasp! The reason for the swift upload is 'cause this interlude has been mostly done for quite a while, so it was just a matter of fine-tuning with the help of the one and only Literary Alchemist. Anyhow, it's another trip back in time, for the sake of character background and, admittedly, just plain fun with game connections.

* * *

**In the past…** (2)

James sat on the beat-up couch with his legs tucked up, using his thighs to prop up his comic book. His father sat on the opposite end with bills, invoices, and other papers spread over the coffee table. Occasionally Frank, who was in his mid-thirties, would grunt and shuffle things around, or James would turn a page, but those were the only sounds disturbing the mild mood.

A loud pounding made the father and son both look over to their apartment's front door at the same time.

"I _wonder_ who that could be," Frank said, setting down the papers in his hand and taking off his reading glasses before going to the door.

James also recognized the incessant rapping, and he groaned and let his head fall back on the arm of the couch. He had an upside-down view of his father opening the door and greeting their most troublesome tenant. Even transposed, Richard Braintree's displeasure was clear on his hard face. He scowled at Frank and jabbed his finger upwards at the ceiling.

"I can't take those goddamn kids!" he hollered, apparently thinking Frank was hard of hearing. "Screaming up and down the goddamn hall! Can't we have any peace and quiet?"

"Yes, can't we?" Frank retorted, unimpressed. He was normally very calm, very friendly, but he'd been the superintendent here for over ten years now, and learned quickly that you couldn't deal with insufferable people without being short with them.

"Don't give me an attitude, Sunderland," Richard growled. "I pay rent here, you know."

"So do your neighbors."

"So that gives them the right to give their damn kids free reign?"

"They're children, Richard. They get riled."

At this statement, Richard's fiery eyes rested on the boy sitting in the apartment and staring at him upside-down. James' eyes widened when their gazes met and he quickly snapped his head up so he was facing the far wall. "I don't care," the disagreeable man retorted.

Frank faked a smile at Richard and turned to his son, who was doing his best to disappear into the couch cushions. "James, do me a favor?"

James twisted around to look at his father, keeping his stare away from the grumbling tenant.

"Go ask Mike if he has his rent, eh?"

James nodded. He got up and made his way past his father and Richard, making sure not to make eye contact or accidentally bump into the second man. The guy was simply nuts. Everybody knew it. He was infamous for his explosions of temper. His very presence brought tension down on everyone around him; behavior would immediately become quieter, more cautious, since no one wanted to be on the receiving end when he finally lost it and committed more than property damage. James wished his father would just kick him out; Frank had a great disliking for Richard already. But James figured that though his father was always firm with Richard so as not to be intimidated, kicking the volatile man out might be one of the things that would set him off.

Of course Mike, who lived in the apartment where James was heading, taking the stairs as quickly as possible to get away from Richard, wasn't any better. James had often heard tenants gossiping in the lobby. Apparently he was really creepy. He collected pornography and he kept bothering Rachel, James' neighbor. Though, at eleven years old, James was only vaguely aware of what porn was. He gathered that it involved naked ladies and it was a bad thing.

James arrived on the third floor and pushed through the doors to the only wing. He passed Room 304, but stopped after turning the corner. A little boy, about five years younger than he, was rapping on Room 302's door.

"Mom!" the boy called. "Mom? Let me in!"

James stared for a moment. This kid was definitely not familiar. He ran through the faces of the kids in Room 206, the very children who Richard was ranting to Frank about downstairs. But James still didn't recognize this little boy. Nope, definitely not one of the tenants'.

"Let me in!"

"Hey," James spoke up. The little boy stopped knocking and gasped. James stepped forward, raising a hand in assurance when the boy cowered. "Hey, there's no one in that room."

The little boy just stared at him, still with wary posture.

"There's no one in there," James repeated. "Are you new? Got the right room?" He didn't remember his father mentioning any new tenants, though. Unless… was this the kid that his father was talking about the other day?

The boy placed his small hand on the door. "My… my mom…"

"That room is empty." James stepped forward and smiled, holding out his hand. It had to be him. His father had said that recently renters had been asking him about a young boy they'd seen wandering alone around the Heights now and then. "I'll help you find your mom, okay?"

Apparently it wasn't okay. The kid suddenly bolted past James and around the corner. James heard the wing door open and shut. He followed quickly, but once he got to the stairs he didn't see the boy anywhere. He bounded down the stairs two at a time to the second floor, looking over the railing at the empty lobby at the bottom. He darted into the east wing of the second floor, then hurried to the west wing, but the boy wasn't there either. The east wing of the first floor was the same, and James could hear Richard still arguing beyond the doors of the opposite wing. He didn't bother to check there, since surely Richard and Frank would have noticed a strange boy. Especially Richard. All James could do was frown before making his way back up to the third floor.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

When James returned to Room 105, with Mike's rent in an envelope in his hand, Richard was still snipping at his father and blocking the doorway. James knew better than to try and push past, so he waited against the wall across from the door.

"What, are you running a zoo here with those little monkeys?" Richard growled.

"They're _kids_," Frank retorted, pinching the bridge of his nose as if it would relieve the tension Richard brought into his daily life. "You're entirely free to give me notice now and--"

"I'm not leaving," Richard snapped.

"Then deal with it," Frank said. "I've got plenty of complaints about you for much worse than being noisy, so I would watch myself."

Richard snorted and, apparently giving up for the day, turned away. His eyes caught James' gaze, and the boy quickly looked at the floor. He shifted from one foot to the other. All he wanted to do was get back inside and give his father the money.

"At least your damn kid is fucking quiet," Richard muttered before stalking away.

James hurried across the hall and into the room, shutting the door behind him. His father sat down on the shabby sofa and slipped on his reading glasses again.

"Here's Mike's rent, Pop," James said, handing him the envelope. "Hey, Pop, when I was upstairs, I--"

Shouting. It was faint, but you could hear Richard anywhere in the building when he was pissed off. Always concerned when Richard Braintree was involved, Frank rushed out of the apartment, and out of a curiosity that dared to brave the tenant's rage, James followed him to the lobby.

Richard was standing in front of the open front door, shaking a fist and yelling to someone outside. "Quit snoopin' around here, you little bastard! Or I'll black your goddamn eyes!" Behind him, two other renters watched, one with interest and faint amusement, the other with disapproval.

"He's only a kid, Richard," said Rachel, a young blonde in a nurse uniform and a handbag over her shoulder.

"Probably one of those orphans from St. Jerome's," replied the other, a shorter and much rounder woman. "They're always bothering the hospital, aren't they?"

"They're just kids," Rachel reiterated. "And some of the patients like having them around."

Richard, finished with glaring at the poor child until he could no longer see him running down the street, let the front door slam shut. "Fucking punk kids."

"Will you just stop hassling people for one day?" Frank grumbled, not noticing that James was surreptitiously hiding behind him. He glared at Richard's back when the other man simply turned and headed for the stairs. Frank looked over at the two women. "You two. Rent."

* * *

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Next time, we shall return to the present day. I'm sure you're all wondering where Ursula ran off to...

Please review. It gives me warm fuzzies. You want to be a warm fuzzy, not a cold prickly, don't you?


	15. Chapter Twelve

**Disclaimer:** No owny.

**Author's Note:** An update after two weeks! Not bad, if I do say so myself. As for the text that follows, well, obviously you'll be the judge of how good or bad it is. And you'll let me know, right? Eh? EH?

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**CHAPTER TWELVE  
****Desperation**

In the corner booth, sitting on the middle of the arced seat, Ursula ate her sandwich as she waited. She hadn't eaten much over the past three days because of her wracked nerves, constantly looking over her shoulder and expecting to find a member of the Valtiel Sect behind her with a spear. Chewing, she glanced around the diner from her corner booth, looking for anyone suspicious, but finding no one that seemed covertly interested in her. Instead, she found herself sighing inwardly at all the people seated in rows on either side of her. She was the only one of the diner's patrons who had been enlightened by the Order. She felt such horrible pity for them, and hoped that God would feel the same when She brought Paradise.

Ursula looked down at the remaining half of her ham and cheese and the pile of fries she hadn't touched. The Order had been tainted now, by Miranda and her foolish beliefs. How could she just disregard what Miriam had said all those years ago? This "Holy Mother" was the Devil. But Miranda believed that Miriam had written sacrilege, that she had been used as a tool by the Devil to mislead followers, to push Paradise further and further away.

Ursula could see, though. There was something wrong with all this, horribly wrong. Admittedly, she herself had always been skeptical about Miriam, who was said to have been spun into heresy by madness, but Ursula couldn't deny her feelings. The fulfillment she used to get from being one with the congregation had been replaced with a sickness that ate away at her and latched around her heart when she had watched the Receiver of Wisdom be revived from the dead. She had been absolutely sure in that moment that it was wrong, it was terrifyingly unnatural, and when the Son tore out the Receiver's eyes she hadn't been able to watch.

She tore her mind away from that moment and tried to concentrate on the present. Perhaps she was surrounded by ignorant nonbelievers, but it was certainly more pleasant to think about than how her congregation had gone astray. Sneaking glances around the half-filled diner once more, it struck her how different it was than Silent Hill. It all seemed so… easy-going. The atmosphere had nothing of imminent doom or salvation to it as the waitresses bustled about and their customers satisfied their appetites in between snips of conversation.

There was one exception: a couple sitting by the door. The man sat nearer to Ursula with his back to her and the woman sat across from him, facing Ursula but taking no notice of her. Their dinners were ignored.

"I've told Ma to get out of there," the woman was saying loudly, nervous and upset. "But she won't listen to me. We have to go get her." The man whispered something to her, and her face twisted in annoyance. "Calm down?" she exclaimed. "It's not normal to snow in the beginning of June! Not in Massachusetts! And on top of everything else--" He tried to assuage her again, and she did lower her voice, taking his hands and saying lowly, seriously, but just loud enough, "Tomorrow we're going to Ashfield and bringing her to stay with us--"

Ursula didn't hear the rest. The bell on the front door jingled, and she looked up hopefully. A young woman with black hair shorn a bit past her ears stepped inside and looked around. They caught each other's eye and she walked over to the corner table.

"Are you Ursula?" the girl asked.

The older woman nodded and slid over to one side of the concave seat so the other could sit down. "Yes, I contacted you."

The girl sat down on the very end of the booth. "Can I ask how?"

"The Order had information on you."

"Still?" the girl sneered. "Well, if you don't mind, take me off the mailing list, alright? I don't want anything to do with you people."

The waitress had walked up at that moment. She stared wide-eyed at the two, thinking that perhaps she should have attended to that particular table a minute or two later. "Um… what can I get you, dear?"

The dark-haired girl glanced up at her. "Water, please."

"Nothing to eat?"

The young woman glared across the table. "No, thank you. I don't plan on staying long."

"But you will listen to me?" Ursula said when the waitress had gone. "You would not have agreed to meet me if you weren't going to listen."

The girl frowned. "Against my better judgment, yes, I'm willing to hear what you have to say."

Ursula smiled with relief. She pushed her plate across the table, offering the food she had not eaten.

The younger only shook her head and frowned deeper. "I said I won't be staying long."

The waitress returned and set down the water. She asked if they needed anything else, and left when her two customers said no.

"So what is it?" the girl asked.

"The Order has been distorted, and is now serving a false god. We need your help to stop it from being fully realized on our plain of existence."

"Excuse me!"

"I know-- _I know_-- that there's little chance of you helping us," Ursula said, "but please believe me that you are the only--"

"Who's this 'we' you're talking about?" the younger woman replied coolly, tracing her finger around the rim of her glass. "You seem to be the only one who sees anything wrong with that loony bin."

"I _am_ the only one who realizes that this is all wrong!" Ursula hissed. Her own drink was full, ignored. "This demon is not god by any means! It is using the Order's desire to be embraced by God against us!"

"What kind of god dies?" the younger asked, not hiding her scoff.

"God is not dead," Ursula retorted. "She will return fully, in time, when everything is suited to her preferences."

"Oh, is _that_ why Claudia failed? God just wasn't ready, eh? Things didn't suit Her needs? I thought it was because Claudia was a freaking psycho bitch." The girl's sarcasm faded, though, and she glanced at Ursula nervously. "'She will return _fully_,' eh?"

"Yes."

She looked disheartened. "I was hoping that all the Ashfield and Silent Hill buzz in the news was just… stories." She laughed bitterly. "God help me, I was _hoping_ it was bio weapons."

"The day that Silent Hill was abandoned was the day that the Twenty-One Sacraments were completed with the death of Henry Townshend in South Ashfield," Ursula explained. They had already been speaking rather lowly, but now she hushed her voice even more. "On that day, the alleged Holy Mother descended to this place, but her power has not yet been fully realized. But that time is coming soon, with the completion of another final ritual."

The younger woman leaned across the table, resting on her forearms with her palms open as if to receive the answer to her question: "Why don't you call the cops? Push the buzzer on the whole thing?"

"Do you think no one has tried that before?" Ursula shook her head. "I can't go to the authorities. No one would believe me. And anyone who would… isn't trustworthy. And on the off chance that I did get some real help from the police…" She sighed. "It happened before. Real help came. But the Order is too careful, and anyone who happened to get too close to the truth..." She looked away. "Miranda means to completely empower the so-called Holy Mother." Ursula put her arms around herself. "If that happens, the infection in South Ashfield will spread everywhere."

"And in Silent Hill," the girl added.

"What?" Ursula faced her again, an eyebrow raised.

"The 'infection' is also in Silent Hill," the younger said, thinking it obvious. "Even worse, I'd say."

"That's different."

She chortled. "How so?"

"The darkness that you feel plagues Silent Hill is actually a glimpse of Paradise. At first, on the surface, it does seem horrible, but I would not expect anyone to be able to fully comprehend its true glory, a splendor which comes from God Herself. In South Ashfield, the darkness is simply that of the Devil, determined to destroy any hope we have of obtaining Paradise by fooling us into believing that she is God."

"If that's what you want to believe. Personally, I think that Silent Hill is just as royally screwed up as Ashfield."

"Regardless, we need your help to stop the Realization of the Holy Mother." Ursula tentatively reached out and touched the other woman's hand. It was hastily withdrawn as she expected. "Someone of your position in our lore, our history, is the only one who can do something. A normal person just… just can't face what's to come, I'm sure of it." She paused, biting her lip. "I… I don't mean to saddle you with such a great burden," she said apologetically.

"Ha!" The other grinned bitterly and raked her hair back with her fingers. "Lady, you can only be born with burdens like this. You haven't given me anything."

Ursula took note at the frustrated tone. "Do you mean…?"

The girl pushed her glass aside and leaned forward with her forearms pressed against the table, head down. "I know I have to help you. I'm the only one who can."

"Then why did you deny me before?"

She chuckled, pressing her hands over her eyes. "'Cause I certainly don't _want_ to do it."

"I am happy that you are going to help us."

She didn't acknowledge the grateful words. "So you want me to fight the Devil, huh?"

"You won't have to if you stop the proceedings."

"And how do I do that?" She lowered her hands back to the table. "The Order has a history of being pretty damn resilient."

Now Ursula eagerly leaned forward. "If they had known how to properly empower the Holy Mother, they would have done so immediately after the Descent. The Mother has been feeding them the information on how to do it through the Twenty-first Sacrament."

The other frowned. "I thought you said all the Sacraments had been killed?"

"The last, the Final Sign, was resurrected at the Mother's instruction."

Only more confusion. "But you said that the last one is who's been telling them how to give her strength."

"Our first instruction was given through the Son."

The girl held up her hands. "Okay, okay, hold on. I think this conversation would benefit from an overview of what the hell the 'Twenty-One Sacraments' are."

Ursula glanced around again, making sure that no one was paying attention to them. The man and woman by the door were leaving, their food in doggie bags. She turned back to the girl. "You are obviously aware of what Claudia was trying to do: bring God back to us. The Twenty-One Sacraments accomplishes the same, and has been a back-up plan of sorts for years in case Alessa failed us." The young woman gave her a look and Ursula looked down at the tabletop. "For years they trained one of our children, Walter Sullivan, to be the Conjurer of the ritual, and when the time came… he fulfilled expectations in life and in death, though it took a matter of years.

"But the strange thing is," Ursula continued, "that it didn't work. The Holy Mother was invoked into the apartment of Henry Townshend, the Receiver of Wisdom and final Sacrament, and she was weak." The girl gave her another look and Ursula added, "Well, relatively at least." She fiddled with her fork. "Sullivan had been brought back to mortal form by the Receiver, but the Holy Mother gave him everlasting life and, as I said before, gave him the instruction to revive the Receiver. The Receiver was also blessed as the Son had been, and she uses him to instruct us in the new ritual to restore her."

"I suppose this Henry guy isn't very compliant."

Ursula shook her head. "He's a prisoner, but she has embedded herself in him. He cannot resist for long. But the point is that it is this sudden brand new ritual that makes it clear that this 'Holy Mother' is not what she seems to be."

"So how does the new ritual work?"

"I don't know. Only Mother Miranda knows that. She keeps the Receiver behind closed doors, under the protection of Walter Sullivan."

"Ironic."

"Yes. So she is the only one who really knows how the Realization is to be brought about. At least, so far."

"So she hasn't learned everything yet?" The girl raised her glass to her lips, thinking while she took a sip.

"As far as I know, no. So if you kill the Receiver of Wisdom, that should put a stop to it."

The young woman's shoulders jerked as she choked on the water. She set the glass down and covered her mouth as she coughed. "Wait, what?"

"Hm?"

"You want me to kill that poor guy!" she hissed, eyes flashing around to make sure no one could hear them.

"He is the vessel for the information."

"But he's just a bystander that got dragged into all this!"

"Not necessarily."

"What do you mean?"

"It is said that the Holy Mother chose the Sacraments before they were even born."

The younger woman snorted. "That's what _you_ say. Besides, _he_ didn't choose to be the frickin' 'Receiver of Wisdom' anyway."

"And you didn't choose to carry this burden, as you said, but you are still going through with it."

"… Shut up."

"If you don't kill him, Miranda will get all the information she needs. The Holy Mother will infest the world. And then… who knows what will ultimately happen to us?"

The girl leaned back in the booth. She frowned as she thought, tipping her head back and staring at the mirrors on the ceiling.

Ursula waited.

Heather sighed. "Alright then."

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**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Yeah, I doubt many of you were surprised. Not just because I dropped a few blatant hints in this chapter, but I know at least one person predicted she'd show up in a review from a few chapters ago. Buh.

Oh, and don't bother with any Cheryl vs Heather debates. Literary Alchemist is going to take care of that with plenty of threats, I assure you. ;) I've already got my own reasons for leaving her as Heather (and I'll work them in), but if he manages to change my mind, you'll know.

Please review!


	16. Chapter Thirteen

**Disclaimer: **Silent Hill in all its incarnations and the characters therein belong to Konami. I'm just borrowing them for my own twisted purposes.

**Author's Note:** Anyone else disappointed by the winner of that abomination of a poster contest? Sheesh. Marketing blows. Sony giveth and taketh away! Er, anyway, I was very endeared to you all for your concern for Henry. Poor guy. But, yes, Ursula is relying entirely on Heather to do something about, ritual and immortality and all. Be assured that their conversation continued; you can only have so much incredulous Heather in one chapter. Of course, the story will come back to all that eventually.

This chapter's pretty short, but I thought it'd be fun to angle things from a different perspective. Takes place around the same time as Ursula and Heather's meeting.

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**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**  
**Adoration**

He told her word for word what Henry had said not an hour ago. Mother Miranda sat behind her desk, forearms and palms flat across its top as she listened, staring at him intently. To her right, the young man constantly at her side was diligently transcribing the piece of the new ritual. When Walter stopped speaking, the young man read it back to be sure it was right. It wasn't; he had missed a couple words, and he quickly corrected them, staring embarrassedly down at the paper to avoid Mother Miranda's critical gaze. It was read aloud again, and this time it was correct. Mother Miranda said Walter could go back to his Mother and Henry, as there were no intruders to be disposed of at the moment.

Walter left the office through its back door, which led to a hallway tucked in the back of the building. To his left was a lounge, formerly for camp employees, but now for Sister Alice's teachings. He turned right and walked to the staircase to the basement at end of the hall, just past the door that opened into the campground. The window in the door revealed the night outside, the solid black of darkness and fog. Walter headed down the stairs, pace steady and unchanging, even when he saw the door-- 302-- that curved his lips into a small smile.

A black cat sat in front of the door, stalwart and attentive, but still with that lazy way cats had about them. Its eyes shone even in the dull fluorescent light, buzzing from the ceiling. Walter did not know if it was always the same cat. There were many of them lurking around the campground and the parts of town he had seen, as well as the forest. Whenever Mother Miranda called him into her office to send him to do his Mother's bidding, there was always a cat in the room to lead him to the trespassers.

He bent down and patted the cat on the head. It closed its eyes and purred, and Walter's smile did not fade. After a few moments of this, the man in the blue coat straightened and found the key in his pocket. He unlocked the door and pushed it open, but before he went inside he looked down at the cat again. It stared back at him, and it mewed once when Walter reached down and picked it up by the scruff. He set it more comfortably in the crook of his arm before stepping inside the apartment.

He peered around the red-crusted space for the Receiver of Wisdom. Henry was not in the living room where he had left him, promising to come back soon. Walter closed the door and returned the key to his pocket before moving further into the apartment and through the hallway. The cat yawned, stretching out its neck. Walter opened the bedroom door and saw the lump of Henry's feet beneath the clean blankets on the bed.

Walter walked to the end of the bed. Henry's entire form was beneath the covers; Walter could see the tight lines in the blankets where the other man had stretched them over his head, blocking out everything. The even rise and fall of his upper body told Walter that he was asleep.

Walter stood there, quietly watching, petting the cat. He preferred when Henry was asleep. When he was awake, he got upset easily, no matter what Walter did. He hoped that they would learn the whole of the ritual soon, so Mother would be complete and happy and open Paradise. Henry would be happy in Paradise.

Walter's gaze wandered as he thought about his mother. She was not how he had expected. He remembered seeing other children with their mothers or hearing other orphans talk about their dead ones. Mothers were close and nurturing. They held you when you cried. They helped you when you got hurt. They hugged you and kissed you and told you that they loved you.

Walter's mother was different. She had been close at first. She healed him and gave him eternal life. In the apartment She swept around him, thanking him for bringing Her there. She cooed in his ear when She told him it was not enough, that they needed Her Prophet. It was like a kiss on his cheek when She promised that the Receiver would be with him always so long as he was good boy and did as She said.

And when Henry came back, She fell silent. She was still in the room, Her Essence spread over every surface, but She did not respond to Walter's need for Her attention. He wanted desperately for Her to speak to him again. She must have been weak. Mothers were caring. She must have been too weak to speak to anyone but Henry. If Walter did as She said, She would have the energy to show Her love for him again.

And they would all be in Paradise, and Henry could love him too.

And for now, Henry was here with him when She couldn't be.

Henry's breathing changed. He was awake.

"Good evening," Walter said.

Henry didn't move for some time. The length of time didn't matter to Walter. He waited patiently, and Henry finally did slip his arms out from underneath the blanket, grabbing the part that was over his head and pulling it down. His hair was a mess and even without eyes his expression was wary, as usual. Walter hoped he could make Henry laugh again, like he had when he told him about Mother Miranda and the bathroom door. That had been an accident, though. Walter wasn't very good at being funny. He hoped there would be another accident soon.

The cat mewed in Walter's arms, and Henry sat up quickly. "Where did that come from?" he demanded.

"By the door," Walter said. The cat squirmed and Walter let it slip away from him. It landed on the bed by Henry's legs. Walter smiled at it when it flopped down on the blankets and stretched out on its back, rubbing against Henry's calf as if asking to have its stomach stroked.

But Henry shifted on the bed, moving his legs away from the feline and bending them over the side of the mattress. "Get it out of here," he said nervously.

Walter frowned. He liked the cats. "Why?"

"I…" Henry trailed off, as if he wasn't sure, but he continued, "I feel like it's… watching me."

Walter looked down at the cat. It hadn't taken its upside-down gaze off the Receiver of Wisdom. "It wants to be pet," he replied, reaching down and scratching it behind the ears. It tilted its head back in appreciation, but did not take its slitted eyes away from Henry.

"Just get it out of here!" Henry snapped, swatting in the animal's direction.

Walter did not want Henry to be upset, so he picked the cat up and took it back to the front door, leaving it in the basement hall with an apologetic pat. When he got back to the bedroom, Henry was on his feet, tentatively touching the numbers on his cheek.

"Does it hurt?" Walter asked.

Henry abruptly threw his arm down to his side. "No."

Walter hoped Henry wasn't lying. Mother's words to him were painful, and Walter didn't want Henry to be in more pain than he had to be. And the numbers were a source of contentment for Walter. They meant that Henry was joined to Mother, and to him.

"Would you like more of your dinner?" Henry had been eating when the headache started. Walter thought he might still be hungry, but the other man only shook his head. "Is there anything you want?" Walter asked.

Henry's laugh was stilted. "To leave," he said.

Walter did not like that kind of laugh, but he did not know what to do about it. He thought conversation would help, even though he wasn't very good at it. He did like to hear Henry talk. "Deirdre is well," Walter said.

This got Henry's attention. He seemed to relax a bit. "Is she?"

"I see her playing with the other children."

"That's good. I guess."

The conversation failed there. After a minute or so of silence, Henry moved towards the bedroom door. Walter opened it for him. Henry stopped at the creaking of the hinges, but then he made a grunting noise in his throat and moved past Walter. Walter followed him to the living room. Henry sat on one of the stools and braced his elbows on the kitchen counter, keeping his head low.

Walter stood attentively by the laundry room door and tried conversation again. "I like the pictures in your bedroom."

Henry raised his head, facing the other man. He seemed surprised, but a corner of his mouth quirked up into a miserable smile and he said, "It must be nice to see them."

"They are from Silent Hill."

"Yeah."

"One is of the church."

"That was an accident," Henry said quickly.

"Accident?"

"It's just a picture. A coincidence."

Walter didn't say anything.

Henry pulled at his hair and shook his head. "What am I saying?" he muttered. Louder, he went on, "Like the Order would have some huge church just sitting around town."

"The Order used to gather in that church in the beginnings of the town," Walter said. "Then others came and changed it to a Christian church."

Henry was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "Do me a favor, and just don't talk."

Henry was always upset by everything. Walter would be happy when Paradise came. He just needed to do everything he could for Mother.

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**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

I tried to go for a different feeling in this chapter, but it was hard. I dunno if it's really that much different than how I usually write. Eh.

Props to **Literary Alchemist** as always for da beta!

Please review.


	17. Chapter Fourteen

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Silent Hill, and so on and so forth. Please don't take my birthday gifts away from me.

**Author's Note:** I wanted to make this a double chapter post, but I didn't have time to work on chapter fifteen. I'm on Spring Break, though, so I _should_ have it done by the end of this week. For now, I hope this is worth your time.

**

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**CHAPTER FOURTEEN  
****Extradition**

It was the afternoon after she had gone to the diner. In the cabin she shared with five other Sisters, Ursula unpacked her satchel of everything she had left town with, besides the information she had copied about Heather Mason. She had burned that before returning to Silent Hill, to enhance the credibility of her reason for leaving. It had just been too much, she would tell Miranda. She had to get away, clear her head, but now she was back, ready to assist in the Realization. At least, until the day she could get Heather into the town unnoticed.

Ursula had worried that once she divulged more to the girl, Heather would change her mind. But Heather begrudgingly accepted that she would have to manage to kill an immortal man and then somehow return the demon to whatever Hell it came from. Ursula honestly wished it wouldn't come down to murdering the Receiver, but she had little doubt that the demon could not be completely destroyed, and was sure that it would never lose touch with its prophet while he still lived.

It was hard to imagine anyone human going up against the demon, but the girl had been the one to stop Claudia's plans. She was the reincarnation of Alessa. Surely she could defeat the "Holy Mother," this grotesque mockery of the beliefs the girl had once lived by herself, though she abhorred them now.

Ursula would contact her again soon. First she needed to know how far Miranda had come to getting the whole of the new ritual. She hoped that it wasn't too much so there would be more time to prepare, but she hardly thought her hopes would be catered to. Of course, the more they knew, the more Ursula could use to find some way to help Heather, though the girl had curiously said, "Actually, I might have something I can use." She wouldn't tell Ursula what she meant.

An expected knock at her door. It was Ivan, and he wanted to escort her to Miranda's office. Ursula followed him out of the cabin, across the campground, and to the administration building. When they reached the office, Ivan excused himself, and the squat, round woman was left alone with the head of the Order.

"Your absence was disconcerting," Miranda said, sitting at her desk with an air of infinite patience.

"I… I apologize for leaving so abruptly," Ursula replied, using her nervousness to her advantage. If her lie were true, after all, she should be wary anyway. Abandoning God, even temporarily, was rarely excused. She bowed her head. "Seeing the resurrection of the Receiver of Wisdom was too incredible for me. I'm sorry. I was weak and afraid, but I am here to serve the Holy Mother again."

Miranda stood and walked around her desk. Her arms were clasped behind her, and she raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Sister Ursula, you did not do anything… foolish while you were parted from us?"

The elder woman was at her side, peering at her critically. Ursula reacted as convincingly as she could, as if the idea were preposterous, unthinkable. She gasped and widened her eyes; she held a hand to her chest as if struck. "Of course not, Mother Miranda!"

A meow in contradiction.

Ursula's breath was caught in her chest as a black cat slinked out from behind the desk. She quickly regained her composure and attempted a smile at Miranda. "You have… taken one in as a pet?"

Miranda offered no consolation; instead she moved one arm to present her with a scrap of black fabric. "What do you think this is, Ursula?"

Ursula swallowed, staring at the offering. "I do not know."

Miranda smiled down at the cat. "No one knows what to think of them. They appeared so quickly after the Descent, and appeared to just be a watchful nuisance, but they have become increasingly helpful in alerting us of outsiders. And this one brought me this gift the day we realized you had gone."

"I… I don't know what you mean."

Miranda's smile faded and her glinting eyes rose back up to the other woman. "I think it was trying to warn me about you, Ursula."

Ursula did her best to look offended. "But I've done nothing wrong!"

"Are any of your clothes damaged?"

She should have burned that skirt too. She could do so later. If she survived this. "You hurt me with your insinuations, Mother Miranda! That rag could be from anyone!"

The cat meowed again, and Miranda frowned at her subordinate. "Explain the behavior of the cat."

"I do not mean to insult you if you've taken a liking to it," Ursula said, doing her best to maintain her composure, "but it probably just brought you such a useless gift to get some food or attention from you."

A knock at the door. Ivan entered, holding Ursula's skirt with the tear in it. There was silence as Miranda matched the missing bit in the skirt with the piece of black cotton in her hand. The door closed behind Ursula, but she knew that Ivan was standing in front of it.

"I am very disappointed in you," Miranda said, shaking her head sadly.

"It's just a cat!" Ursula exclaimed, looking fearfully from the elder woman to the young man. "It doesn't mean anything!"

"Then why did you lie to me?"

"I… I…"

"Where were you, Ursula?"

Ursula bit her lip. She said nothing. She couldn't think of anything to say.

"God loves you, Ursula," Miranda said remorsefully. "I have no doubt that She is sad that you would betray Her."

Ursula still said nothing. It was too late.

"Ursula, what have you done?"

She stayed quiet, and her throat felt thick.

"Will you betray God further with your silence?"

Her eyes burned with tears, and Ursula blurted out, "Mother Miranda, you don't understand. The Holy Mother is a demon! Miriam wasn't crazy! Can't you see?" No, Miranda did not see; the priestess bowed her head.

"You spoke with someone, didn't you?" Miranda said quietly. "Who was it?"

Ursula shook her head. She would not tell her. Heather was their last chance of getting rid of the false god.

Miranda sighed, and gazed at her Sister with a cold pity. "God loves you, Ursula. But I cannot forgive you."

Another knock. Ivan opened the door and someone came in.

"Walter, dear," Miranda said affectionately. "I think Ursula would benefit from a visit with your Mother."

* * *

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Oh, snap!

As always, please review.


	18. Chapter Fifteen

**Disclaimer:** I don't own SH. It's in the capable hands of Konami.

**Author's Note:** Thanks to the wonders of Spring Break, I was able to get the next chapter done in less than a week (instead of reading for homework-- I'm a bad example, kids!). Thanks to Literary Alchemist as always for the beta help, when he could be working on his own stuff, which you should read and review, wink-wink, nudge-nudge.

* * *

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN  
****Execution**

Henry jumped when the creak of the front door was accompanied by a woman's panicked screaming. Somewhere under her hollering was Walter's voice, calm as usual, trying to sooth her to no avail. Henry could hear him dragging her to the hallway; there were banging sounds, and Henry couldn't help but picture feet kicking at the walls and fingernails clawing at the rusted wallpaper.

"No! Please! Oh, God! OH, _GOD_! HELP ME!"

"Quiet. Shhh."

Henry uneasily got up from the couch and made his way over to the hall. With practice, he had gotten quite good at navigating around the apartment without having to brace himself on the wall. He stood at the head of the hallway, listening to Walter pull the woman into the back room.

"Walter, what are you doing?" Henry asked nervously, stupidly. He didn't know what else to ask. Walter didn't do these things around him. Walter did them outside, away, far away, where Henry could pretend they didn't happen.

Henry heard the purposeful steps stop, and the woman's screaming died down to pitiful whining. "Please help me…" she begged him.

"Mother wants to see Ursula," Walter explained. He made a small noise of effort as he grabbed her again. She resumed screaming.

Henry followed. He almost tripped when he crossed into the back room. "See her? Walter!" he yelled over the shrieks. "Stop! What do you mean?"

"They're going to kill me!" Ursula wailed.

"Walter!" Henry exclaimed, lacking anything else to say.

"Please please please _please please_!" the woman cried. "I'm sorry. I'm _so sorry_!"

Strangely, it sounded like she was apologizing to _Henry_, but he was more concerned about her welfare. "Walter… I don't know what you're doing, but please... Let her go."

"Go to the kitchen. I will bring your lunch soon."

"Walter!" Henry snapped, the shreds of his defiance flaring up. "I'm not going to just walk away!"

"No. You wouldn't."

Ursula whimpered.

Henry hesitated, but then said, "Walter… For me. Please don't do this."

Silence.

Then Walter replied. "Mother wants to see her. Stay." Ursula shrieked.

Before Henry could plead with him, her screaming suddenly stopped. In fact, there was no sound in the room other than his own breathing. "Walter?" Henry asked. But there was no response. He stepped further into the room, confused, trying to figure out what had happened.

There was a familiar pull tugging him down, and he stopped. The hole. The hole in the floor.

So that was where 'Mother' was.

Going down there was the last thing Henry wanted to do. But like before, he had no choice. He couldn't just leave her.

Henry stepped forward and slipped down.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

It was warm.

He was curled up, arms wrapped around his legs, head tucked between his knees. He breathed rhythmically, deeply, the thickness of the air swelling in his chest.

But like last time, the secure feeling faded away, and he started to remember. And as he remembered, his arms loosened, and his legs straightened, sliding downwards. His feet hit the hard floor, and gravity had its place again.

The red room. Round, closed in, he remembered. Tall pale figures embedded in the walls, keeping watch through the sanguine atmosphere. The other, bigger hole that led down to the red churning pool and the masticated, howling thing.

He didn't give himself time to think about it.

He jumped down.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

And landed somehow on his feet.

He immediately noticed that the grinding sound was absent; all he could hear was Ursula's horrified whines somewhere close by. The blood-filled pit was still there, he discovered when he took a tentative step and his sandaled foot sunk into thick liquid. He took a hurried step backward, grimacing. He turned towards Ursula's cries, and that was when an animalistic shriek erupted, the echoes freezing the blood in his veins.

The Holy Mother. It was different this time. He could immediately tell that She was not restrained as before. She was not nearly as weak either. Henry suddenly wished desperately that he had listened to Walter.

Ursula screamed, begging for her life. But there was a snapping sound, and the screaming choked into a gurgle that trickled off into nothing.

He was too late. Too weak. And his situation was doubtlessly precarious. He started to back away, and nearly collapsed when the Holy Mother howled again, unmistakably in his direction.

There was a rushing noise, and suddenly all the air was gone from his body as he flew forward, smashing down into the rock. He groaned as he pushed himself up, his palms and cheek tingling as the scrapes healed. He was on his knees, leaning forward on his hands when She shrieked again, Her hot, sickly breath driving against his back. He froze, head down, moaning in fright.

It became clear then that not only had he had the audacity to attempt to thwart Her, but he had trespassed, he had put himself in her presence without being summoned. He had no doubt that he would be punished, for this and the other difficulties he had given Her.

Something stroked his back, like insects wriggling up and down his spine, and he shuddered, resisting the urge to vomit. Two large boney digits, like gnarled tree branches, curled over his shoulders, slowly pulling, sitting him up, and he found himself praying in the darkness, praying for someone, something, even Walter to stop this, save him.

Henry screamed when he felt the digits leave his shoulders and a large claw encircled his entire head. The smell of acrid rotting flesh seeped into his nostrils and his mouth and his ears and his pores, and then sharp prodding fingers were parting his useless eyelids, sliding into his eye sockets. He didn't dare move, struggling against the agony.

The repulsive breath overtook him; she was lowering her head, he could feel the blasts of nauseating warmth on the side of his face. Then there was sound, Her raspy, seductive, fierce voice slithering into his ear, burning the inside of his head like fire. It was like words at first. He was a whimpering maggot, an ungrateful fool to reject Her Gifts, Her Love, Her Son. He couldn't possibly comprehend what he was dealing with, to have the gall to fight her, to try to postpone Her Realization. She whispered sweetly on and on, enjoying his trembling, and her voice was like nails scraping around the inside of his skull, until there were no words at all, just ideas, images, charred and pus-oozing flesh, endless hollows of despair, monstrous things twisting and turning and writhing, sickening desperation of greedy hands, creatures engaged in unnatural joys of flesh. He started to choke on the black bile surely rising in his throat.

The message was clear.

The digits slid out of his head, and Henry fell forward, cowering on the ground. Walter crouched beside him-- Henry could suddenly see him-- and Henry immediately reacted. He latched onto the other man for dear life. Walter slipped his arms under Henry's legs and around his back so he could get him back to the room. At no point did Henry withdraw; he kept his face buried in Walter's shoulder.

He didn't know how they made it back, or how long it was before they did, but Henry became aware of the familiar atmosphere of the apartment.

"Shhhh…" Walter murmured softly. Henry showed no sign of being consoled; he was shaking terribly. Walter took him into the bedroom and set him onto the bed; he had to pry Henry's fingers off of his coat. He sat on the edge of the bed and pet Henry's hand.

"I told you to stay," Walter said.

"H… h-how…" Henry stuttered, far too rattled to stop shaking.

"Shhh…" Walter ran his fingers through Henry's hair. "How what?"

"How can you believe in a Paradise!" Henry screamed.

Walter shook his head, with the empty smile that Henry couldn't see. "I know it is still hard for you to understand. But you will. God loves you."

This struck Henry. It struck and snapped something, and he laughed hatefully. "There is no God."

Walter grabbed Henry's hand tightly. "Don't say that."

Henry only laughed again, shook his head, and muttered hysterically, "There is no God. There can't be."

Walter actually sounded desperate. "What can I do to make you feel better?"

What would make him feel better? _What would make him feel better?_ It would make him feel better to be away from here, to have a normal life again. To be able to see! To see anything at all! Anything other than all this in his head, all the terrible things She had shown him. Anything but dead men and women and lost little children and his chained will. Anything to make him feel like there was still hope left to quell his anger he felt boiling within him, this consuming hatred that prickled at what She had forced upon him, demanding to have it out _out_, demanding to die or else it would have nothing to sustain itself but Henry's brittle sanity and he would be dragged down down down screaming screaming _screaming-_

Henry brought his elbow up fast to Walter's chin. The blond man was knocked back, off the bed, and Henry got up and scrambled to the door. He opened it, stumbled down the hall, opened the apartment door. He didn't know where he was going. He didn't care.

He threw himself into the basement hall. There was a noise of surprise, from a female voice, a voice that drew all of his bitter anger. Miranda. She approached him, her voice brisk, demanding to know why he was out of the room, but then his hands were around her neck, and she couldn't say all that much.

Walter was behind him, yelling for him to stop. Stronger fingers pried Henry's away from Miranda's frail throat. He could hear her gasp, stumble back. Walter's hands were still holding his. Henry wrenched his right hand away and turned and swung. His fist grazed Walter's jaw and slammed into his throat and the taller man made a choked wheezing sound. Henry tried to free his left wrist, but Walter held on, so he tried to punch him again, but Walter caught his fist. The taller man was saying something, trying to calm him, but Henry wasn't listening. Instead he started to scream, no real words, just violent enraged _noise_, louder and louder until it was all he could hear, until he thought his lungs would collapse and he would just die and all of this would end.

Suddenly Henry was thrown into the wall, his head slamming against the concrete. He slid to the floor, his head spinning. His arms came up over his head to coax away the pain. All the images, though they were still there, became quiet, like his memories. He was left with his grief.

He was going to die here.

Miranda finally managed to stop gaping at the scene before her. She forced herself to lower her hand from her bruised throat, resetting her composure while smoothing out her dress and taking a deep breath. She was ready to punish Henry as she would the children, but then she heard hitched breathing from the floor. It was Henry; he was crying. Her angry expression softened to irritation. She looked to Walter; he was already kneeling on the ground in front of the Receiver, murmuring apologies and coaxing words that Henry either couldn't hear or wasn't listening to.

"Walter," she said. He looked up at her. "Is it done?" Miranda asked.

Walter nodded. He turned his eyes back to Henry and rested a heavy hand on the sobbing man's shoulder. "Mother has taken Ursula away."

* * *

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

... I am really mean to Henry, aren't I? At least we got back to him anyway.

Dunno when the next chapter will be out. When I got the general idea for it and dabbled with it, it turned out pretty weird. And not, like, SH weird, but _weird_ weird. We'll see how it goes.

Please review, dearest dears of Dearyville.


	19. Chapter Sixteen

**Disclaimer:** You only get three guesses at how many licensed properties I own.

**Author's Note: **I didn't mean to take so long. Honest. Gah. Well, anyway, I believe I mentioned at the end of Chapter Fifteen that this chapter has an odd aspect. Hopefully it works. Oh, and Henry's lame cassette player is now a cassette/CD player! GAIA HAS SPOKEN.

* * *

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN  
****Reflection**

The next morning, Walter brought Henry upstairs to use the bathroom as usual. Henry stepped inside, and before Walter could offer his assistance, Henry shut the door in his face. He undressed and showered, concentrating on his every movement so he wouldn't have to think about anything else. The previous day and the nightmares that followed had been bad enough. Henry couldn't even be sure that he'd done anything but sit mindlessly when Walter eventually got him back into Room 302. He didn't try to remember, though. Focusing on the present was best.

"Do you need any help?" Walter asked through the door.

"I need you to shut up," Henry snapped. The words just shot out and Henry froze for a moment, standing under the spray of water, trying to gather himself together. But it was like cleaning up broken glass; slivers were undoubtedly missing.

About ten minutes later, Henry opened the door and stepped out of the bathroom, grateful that he couldn't see Walter. But the other man grasped his hands and said with a low voice, like a trustworthy confidant, "I know you are troubled."

"Oh, really?" Henry replied weakly, his voice cracking.

"You can pray at the altar if you like."

Pray. Back there. In that room. "No."

"Are you sure?"

Henry didn't say anything more. He pulled his hands free and stepped past the other man. For once he led Walter back to the room, not the other way around.

If he didn't have some kind of distraction soon, he would go crazy. It wasn't an exaggeration. For days-- over a week, he estimated-- he had been trapped in this room doing nothing but thinking in between eating what little he could bother or having sessions with Sister Alice. Then there were the headaches that spread into trances no matter how much he fought against them. And there was yesterday. The grotesque images that had slimed their way into his head made the agonizing waiting game even worse.

"I need. Something. To do," Henry said after he heard the apartment door close behind them.

Walter was not apt at suggestions. "What?"

"I… don't know." When he was bored, Henry had a tendency to watch TV or sketch. Of course, those weren't exactly options now. It had never occurred to him before how essential the sense of sight was to amusing yourself. That whole stupid adage about taking things for granted. It actually made Henry think of that song, the one that went, "Don't it always seem to go/ that you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone." Who sang it? Sheesh, who gave a shit? Thinking about music at a…

"Music," Henry repeated aloud.

"Hm?"

"Could you… get me a CD player?" It seemed like an awkward question, but Walter did say he could have anything. Henry might as well take advantage of it.

"Why don't you use the one here?" Walter replied.

Henry wrinkled his brow. "You can make my CD player work?"

"Yes."

"… Yes?"

"Yes."

"Just like that?" Henry said incredulously.

"Yes."

"It… It works now?"

"Yes."

"… Get out." Henry wasn't sure why he was angry. It wasn't like Walter had purposely been keeping some method of sanity from him. It was just a case of 'you never asked.' It must have been the simple stupidity of it all. "_Get out_!" he repeated through gritted teeth.

The sound of the door opening and closing, and the clicking of the lock, signaled Walter's retreat.

Henry went to his bedroom and stood in front of the open closet. Arms brushing against the shoulders of hangers, he reached up and examined the boxes with his hands. Biting his lip, he pulled one of them down, hoping he was remembering the right one. Congratulating himself for not knocking anything onto his aching head, he set the box on the bed and pulled open the top. He put a hand in and immediately felt hard plastic that shifted under his hand and clacked against more plastic.

He carried the box out into the living room, to the corner with the bookshelf and the radio. He sat down on the chair there and set the box at his feet. Leaning over with a hand in the box, Henry felt a bit stupid. How was he supposed to pick a CD? Though he supposed it didn't matter really. Anything to get him away from here, one way or another. He flipped his fingers through the plastic cases and pulled one out at random.

He stood in front of the radio and moved his fingers across the front of it, trying to remember the buttons and ignore the gritty coating that hadn't spared the radio in its infestation of the room. As he pressed the 'OPEN' button, he wondered if Walter really had been able to restore the player's normal operation, but he heard a whir and the CD tray brushed against his hand. Henry felt anxious as he opened the CD case and popped out the disc. He didn't care what album it was, so long as he could at least _remember_ a time of normalcy.

He set the case on top of the shelf and pressed what he was pretty sure was the play button. He sat down on the chair and held his breath for an anxious moment, suddenly afraid the small speakers would erupt in static or vitriol.

There was a simple optimistic piano intro, and then a male voice was rhythmically instructing: _Again. Step kick kick feet kick touch. Again. Step kick kick feet kick touch. Again. Step kick kick feet kick touch. Again. Step kick kick feet kick touch. Right. That connects with…_

Oh, Jesus. Of all the CDs to pick: _A Chorus Line_.

His college had done a production of _A Chorus Line_ in his junior year. His girlfriend had tried out and made it into the cast, in the role of the girl who sang about her post-plastic surgery success. She convinced him to help out stage crew by assisting with the set pieces, and he did so as any proper submissive boyfriend would. But _A Chorus Line_ didn't involve an intricate set, so he wound up working one of the spotlights too.

Oh God, the director had been a nightmare. Henry had never heard of one who wasn't incredibly meticulous, and it was necessary to put on a good show, but jeez. He'd felt more like he was in the army than in stage crew. If his spotlight was a millimeter off, Henry could be sure that the director would let him know with a barrage of questions about his intelligence.

During one of the agonizingly long dress rehearsals, Henry remembered that the director and the orchestra conductor had both been at their wits' end and started butting heads. At one point, the orchestra had been blaring away, and the conductor either couldn't hear or was ignoring the director's cues to quiet them down. Finally the director stomped down the aisle, stood behind the percussion, and screamed, "IT'S TOO LOUD!" An abrupt silence took over as the musicians choked on their breath and paralysis wound around their joints, except for the xylophonist who jumped so high that her mallets clattered off-key across her instrument.

His girlfriend was ecstatic to be on stage, though, and even bought him the original cast recording, so he grinned and bore it. He wound up liking the show once they finally got to the performances and the director managed to lighten up.

It may have been an odd CD choice, but it had certainly worked in distracting him. When his attention wandered back to the music, he found that he had missed the rest of the first track and the whole of the second. Two women were singing somewhere in the middle of the third song.

_It wasn't paradise, it wasn't paradise, it wasn't paradise, but. it. was. home._

Henry found himself bent over, holding his stomach, trying to suppress a laughing fit, as if he were drunk. He was losing his mind in reality. He'd rather be drunk though. Hell, if he asked for it, maybe Walter would get him some Absolut. That thought only brought up more giggles, and he was caught up in a conflict of emotions: a bizarre giddiness at the song lyrics and the thought of getting alcohol from Walter, and a panicked fear that he'd never stop laughing, that maybe this was it and he'd finally lose all hold he had on his head. His heart seized in his chest, his stomach twisted like a dish rag, his joints all locked so tight that he swore they'd break.

This was it, he thought, and somewhere amid the laughter and terror he was grateful.

But slowly his breathing wound down, and everything loosened. Henry found himself still bent over with his arms wrapped around his torso, but very much intact to his disappointment.

The door creaked open as the fifth song began. He hadn't expected Walter to stay away very long.

_Hello, twelve. Hello, thirteen. Hello, looooove._

Walter's footsteps stopped suddenly.

_Changes, ohh! Down below. Up aboooove._

"I know this song." Walter's voice was odd. As if he'd never expected to hear it again. Henry didn't reply. Then as the song picked up pace, Walter added, "At college."

Henry turned his head toward him in surprise. Walter Sullivan? _College_? That was… impossible. People like Walter did not go to college. Normal people went to college. Henry had gone to college (and come out with a B.A. in Fine Arts that had never done him much good). Of course, hadn't something about college been in one of Joseph's notes?

_Too young to take overrrr! Too old to ignore!  
__Gee, I'm almost ready!  
__But… what… for!_

Listening to a CD had been comforting. But with Walter in the room, it was awkward, especially with this new information that seemed so wrong. Probably because it seemed impossible that a verifiable psychopath could have a degree. Unless he was Hannibal Lecter.

It finally occurred to Henry that it might be too much of a coincidence that they'd both been exposed to the musical during their time at a university. "Where did you go?" Henry asked nervously.

"Pleasant River."

Henry felt some relief. It wasn't his school. He did know, though, that Pleasant River University was one of the well-known schools in the state. Nowhere near Ivy League, but certainly no community college. It was one of those schools that had just about every major possible. So, though Henry was surprised that Walter had gone to a four-year school at all, the one he specified wasn't unbelievable.

"What… uh… What did you major in?" He was curious now. Not to mention still suffering from utter boredom. It didn't matter how awkward it was to attempt a normal conversation. What could Walter possibly major in anyway?

A pause. "I do not remember."

"You don't remember?"

"No."

"You have a degree and you don't remember?"

"I don't have one."

"Oh. You flunked." Henry felt oddly disappointed.

"It did not matter. Mother mattered."

The second part of the montage started.

_Please take this message… to Mother… from meee…  
__Carry it with you  
__(Dad would take Mom to Roseland.)  
__Across the blue seeaaa.  
__(She'd come home with her shoes in her haaand.)_

Henry reached over and finally turned off the CD player.

"Do you have a mother?" Walter asked.

"Of course I do," Henry grunted. What an odd question.

"What is she like?"

Henry didn't reply, standing up and taking the CD out of the radio.

"What's she like?" Walter asked again, sounding desperate.

Henry was surprised by his voice. So he answered. "She… She's nice," he said lamely, putting the disc back in its case. He wasn't sure what to say. No one had ever asked him what his mother was like before.

"Nice..." Walter was waiting for him to continue.

Henry knelt down and put the CD back in the box. Then he sat down, cross-legged, and thought. His mother… "She likes to cook, bake." He couldn't help his smile. "Sometimes she would get bored late at night and just start making cookies or something and have me help her. It drove my father crazy, especially when she had insomnia." He shook his head. "But she didn't care. She liked to spite him sometimes. I failed this math test once, so he said I couldn't go to the art museum in Hartford. But she took me anyway. Even bought a print and hung it right in our living room." Remembering the look on his father's face, Henry laughed.

Walter chuckled too. The alien sound brought Henry back to himself again, and he shifted uncomfortably. "I don't want to talk about this anymore."

"Oh."

Henry realized that Walter didn't know anything about either of his mothers. Neither the biological one he was probably unaware existed nor the Holy Mother whom he served so loyally. He'd pursued that mother for so long, and what was there to show for it after the Twenty-One Sacraments were over? Certainly not a normal relationship between a mother and son by any means. What could this mother offer him? Only her bare existence, the broiling emptiness he felt in his own gut, as far as Henry could tell.

Certainly Walter had expected something from his mother. To be held, comforted, loved. To hear her voice. But she embodied a monstrous form, banished down in that room, and as far as Henry knew, yesterday was the only time Walter had been down there. And the Son could not hear his Mother's voice, for she spoke to Henry and not to him. She sought no contact with Walter at all.

Henry brought his legs up and wrapped his arms around his knees. He thought back to the dream he had, so long ago it seemed. 'You will quell him for me.' That was what he was here for, wasn't it? Besides being a conduit of information, he was here so Walter could express affection and get some kind of response, even if it was negative. The Holy Mother probably just didn't want to be bothered with him.

Abandoning him, but smart enough not to let him know it.

Henry felt depressed as all hell. He didn't know how he would feel if his mother treated him like that. His mother had been good to him, really, always challenging his father when he tried to control Henry's life.

Henry felt dumb asking, but gave it a shot. "Couldn't I… write her a letter or something?"

"Why?" Walter sounded surprised. "She thinks you are dead."

Henry jerked his head up, let his mouth fall open. He wanted to say some kind of rebuttal, but couldn't think of anything. After all, he should have realized before. Miranda had said that they waited to resurrect him. So his body must have been discovered, buried. He clenched his jaw shut. They robbed his grave. He growled, "And now she'll be in even worse pain since my body is missing."

"The Order is careful," Walter replied. "As far as anyone is concerned, your grave is untouched."

Henry wasn't sure if that made him feel better. Actually, he was pretty sure he felt worse. His head was getting quite full all of the--

"Shit," Henry hissed, pressing his palms to the side of his head. No no no no no _no_ _no no_ he was _not_ going to do this! It was _his_ head, goddammit, _not hers_ and she could send a goddamn telegram if she wanted to communicate with her followers.

Walter was kneeling in front of him, his hands over Henry's hands, Henry's hands over his ears. Henry could barely hear Walter assuring him that it would be alright, to just let it come, that he had to accept it sooner or later.

Before he fell to Her again, he once more thought of his mother, holding his hand as they approached the sanctuary of the museum.

* * *

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

The odd bit, if you didn't think so yourself, was the inclusion of _A Chorus Line_. The parental theme in that music seemed to relate. Kinda.

Some of you might be saying, "But Gaia! Walter went to med school!" My take on it was an obvious cop-out. I have no problem with changing it if anyone can point me to an actual resource or definitive evidence that supports that claim, not hearsay. As of right now it makes absolutely no sense to me, but I'm open to convincing explanations if you care enough.

And as always, reviews are super duper awesome.


	20. In the past 3

**Disclaimer:** At this point, it's probably not necessary.

**Author's Note:** Well, I thought I'd get this out a lot sooner. It seemed okay at the time. Sigh. Still not happy with it, but this is as good as it's gonna get. Anywho, it's another flashback! Yay!

* * *

**In the past…** (3)

Silent Hill used to have its fair share of sunny days, though many people had a hard time believing it. Ever since a mysterious fire destroyed a string of houses and killed a little girl, the town seemed plagued. But once upon a time, there was no drug ring ensnaring the town's politics. The lighthouse and amusement park were simply tourist attractions, not scenes of strange incidents. People would travel to Silent Hill without worrying that they could disappear without a trace. And it was fog, not sunshine, that was a rarity.

On one of these bright spring afternoons, a young married couple strolled around the shopping district of Central Silent Hill. The husband set his gaze straight ahead while his wife's eyes darted from window to window.

William and Victoria Townshend-- Will and Vicky to their friends back in Connecticut-- had come to Silent Hill for their third wedding anniversary. One of Will's coworkers had said the tiny resort town was cozy and romantic, the perfect atmosphere to encourage two potential parents. Will had not told his friend about everything else stacked against them, but it sounded like as good a place as any to celebrate their marriage.

On the second day of their vacation, Will allowed Vicky to drag him along for an obligatory shopping trip. He was a frugal man, but one thing he had learned was that he'd rather supervise his wife's spending than be surprised when she showed up at the house with several bulging shopping bags. He'd even said this to Vicky, and she only laughed, wrapping her arms around him in an affectionate hug and cooing about how she knew he liked to spend time with her.

They were passing by a florist when Vicky tugged on his arm and pointed at a building across the street. "Oh, Will! Look! An antique shop!"

Will sighed. "Like we need any more junk."

She ignored him and pulled him to the curb. "C'mon," she said, glancing both ways before dragging him across the road. The doorway below the sign led to a descending staircase. She led him down and through the door at the bottom.

As they stepped inside, a bell on the door jingled and a woman behind the counter turned to smile at them, tucking her long, dark hair behind her ear. The lamp hanging overhead highlighted the crows' feet around her eyes, but the rest of her face was smooth. "Welcome," she greeted them, before turning around to arrange some old photographs on the walls. She wore three rings on each hand and several bracelets slid down her wrists as she adjusted the pictures. She wore a simple patchwork dress with a fringed white shawl around her shoulders.

Vicky immediately took note of the woman's attire. She reminded her of a gypsy. This intrigued and excited her. The old shop surely had some interesting items.

Will immediately took note of the woman's attire. She reminded him of a gypsy. He rolled his eyes. He wasn't going to let his wife buy any of this ancient junk. He tugged at Vicky's elbow. "Let's get out of here."

His wife pointedly ignored him as she examined a music box.

"Vicky."

"That's a lovely old box," the woman said, walking over to them. She spotted Will's glare, and she focused her attention on his wife. "It's about seventy-five years old, from Italy."

"It _is_ pretty," Vicky said, admiring the flecks of gold on its engraved surface.

The woman opened it, and a tinkling melody began to play, occasionally twanging off-key. "It was a gift from the maker to his daughter on her sixteenth birthday. She kept it for years, through marriage and births, but one day there was a terrible fire. Her daughter was the only one who survived, and this box is the only article the girl rescued from the flames."

"Oh, how sad!" the younger woman sympathized.

Will rolled his eyes. "Vicky, this is ridiculous!" he hissed. The song irritated his ears, and he clamped a hand over the box's lid and slammed it shut.

Vicky swatted his hand and glared at him. "God, Will, don't you have a sense of history? Ugh, you could've broken it!"

At that remark, the shopkeeper gave him a smug glance out of the corner of her eye, and Will decided he did not want to be down in this dump any longer. "You can waste money if you want," he snapped. "I'll wait outside." He was gone with the ringing of a bell.

Vicky smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry, Mrs…?"

The old woman smiled. "Gillespie, but please call me Dahlia."

"Call me Vicky then, if you like."

Dahlia nodded. "Do you like the music box?"

"Oh, very much, but I have a couple already that I don't use."

"Afraid of gathering a collection?"

Vicky laughed. "Perhaps. I do like it, but… I'm not really interested in buying it. I really rather like to just look at them. I like aged things, for some reason. If something really strikes me, though, I'll buy it."

"Ah, well we have many things here. I'm sure something will grab you." Dahlia's smile didn't change, but Vicky suddenly got the strange feeling that the woman was scrutinizing her. Something about her eyes, old, weathered, waiting--

The bell rang again, and the two women looked up to see a young, raven-haired girl step into the shop. She was dressed neatly in a blue dress with white cuffs and a black belt. Her hair was short and combed away from her face; her dark eyes contrasted strikingly with her pale skin. Vicky remarked to herself that she didn't think she'd ever seen eyes that dark on a child before.

"Alessa, dear," Dahlia cooed. "Did you get the letters to Dr. Kaufmann?"

The young girl nodded. "Yes, Mama."

Vicky smiled, having forgotten about her uneasiness. "Your daughter?" Dahlia nodded, and Vicky turned to Alessa. "Aren't you a pretty girl?"

Alessa looked down at the floor and shifted from one foot to the other. "Mama, do I have to go with you to Wish House tonight?"

"Yes," Dahlia said, her voice slipping into a severe tone that made Vicky cringe. Then Dahlia coughed and said more soothingly, "Go into storage, dear, and find something to put on the wall." She pointed to a blank area on the east wall. Someone must have bought something earlier. Alessa obeyed, vanishing through a door behind the counter.

Vicky examined the music box uncomfortably. That 'yes'. It had only been one word, but there was something that lurked in the tone that she just didn't like.

Dahlia seemed to sense the change in mood and tried to regain their rapport. "Do you have any children?"

"Hm?" Vicky looked up. "Oh, no."

"Really?" the other woman seemed intrigued by this, and Vicky felt that feeling again, creeping up the back of her neck. "Well, I suppose a young couple like you has plenty of time for that."

"Well, we are trying."

"'Trying,' hm?"

"There have been problems," Vicky admitted.

The older woman bowed her head, a gesture of understanding. "Fertility."

Vicky nodded, feeling embarrassed. She looked down at the floor, and noticed for the first time that the woman was barefoot.

Dahlia placed a hand over Vicky's and squeezed it. "May I show you something?" she said when Vicky looked back up at her.

"Alright…" Vicky allowed herself to be led to the front counter. Dahlia left her in front of it and moved to the other side. She ducked for a moment or two, and when she reappeared she had a flat wooden box in her hands. She set it on the countertop and removed the lid, setting it aside. Pendants presented themselves in neat rows.

"These," Dahlia said, "are ancient talismans of the old religion of this town." She pointed a long fingernail at the one in the very center. "Many, many years ago, this one was worn by a woman named Anna Carroll, the wife of the highest ranking priest of the… the old ways, shall we say. But Anna was not always a believer. She used to have other spiritual inclinations, when she was married to a different man, the man with whom she discovered she could not have any children. There were no methods like they are developing today, however, so she had little hope." Here, Dahlia leaned across the counter, and Vicky found herself doing the same. "But then she met the High Priest, and he told her that God would give her a child if she only asked, and he gave her this pendant. She took it home to her husband, and he laughed at her. She, of course, felt silly to ask God for help now, but she kept the pendant.

"Time passed, and she crossed paths with the priest again. He asked about the child within her, and she admitted that there was none, and told him about her husband. The priest took her hand in his, and told her that her husband was a fool, and his foolishness prevented her from having her baby. Anna told him that was not true, for if she truly believed the priest, she would not allow her husband to dismiss her. They had many conversations on many days after that, and it was not long before Anna fell in love with the priest and ran away from her husband, pendant around her neck. She wore it, and she believed, and she gave birth to a baby girl."

"This is true?" Vicky said, gazing down at the talisman.

Dahlia nodded. "Yes. There are many stories in the old religion, the Order, of this town. But the people here will not discuss it." A pause. "Do you like the pendant?"

Vicky looked up at Dahlia and chuckled nervously. "Oh, I don't know. I mean, I'm barely Christian. To be honest, I don't really _believe_--"

"Maybe you should believe," Dahlia interrupted. "Belief is everything in these matters."

Vicky felt a very strange sensation at the back of her mind, and she suddenly had the urge to leave, to leave very quickly. But she told herself she was being silly. So what if Dahlia had some eccentric beliefs? She meant well, after all. Vicky looked down at the pendant, presented at the center of all others, and she thought about her baby, the baby she wanted so desperately to have, the baby at whose mention the doctor just looked at her sympathetically and said there was little he could do.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Will was leaning against a tree outside the store. From time to time he would glance at the doorway and grumble about how his wife was "getting conned by that damn gypsy." Another man had been sitting on a bench and listening to him mutter to himself for about five minutes.

"Not much for antiques?" the man finally said.

"Hn?" Will looked over to him. "No," he replied simply. "I'm not much for useless rip-offs."

The other man chuckled. "Yeah, I'm not much for flowers." He pointed to Mushnik's Florist across the street from Green Lion Antiques. "But my wife can't get enough of 'em."

Bored, Will asked, "On vacation too?"

"Nah, I've lived here for quite a while," the man on the bench said, "and I can tell you that Dahlia Gillespie sells authentic antiques in there. I've had stuff appraised after buying from her."

Will folded his arms, annoyed at being proved wrong. "Well, at home, we have plenty of pretty things for Vicky to look at."

The other man nodded, and glanced at the antiques store. He shifted on the bench, adjusting his coat. "If you're going to worry about Dahlia," he said hesitantly, "there are other reasons…"

"Hm?" Will raised an eyebrow. "Like what?"

"Did you see that girl who went into the store just before?"

"Yeah."

"That's Dahlia's daughter, Alessa. That girl… She's strange. Bizarre things have happened when she's been around."

Will suppressed a groan. "Like what?"

"Well… sometimes people…" The other man's gaze fell to the sidewalk. "They die."

"Oh, right." Will snorted. Local folk and their stories. Ridiculous.

The man looked up earnestly. "It's the honest-to-God truth. No one likes to talk about it much." He glanced warily at the shop. "But the kids at her school, you should hear the stories they tell about her."

Will yawned. "Kids always pick one of their own out."

"This is different," the man insisted. "Dahlia herself… is not well thought of. Not many people will talk about it, but… There's something off about her."

Will was still annoyed, but at the mention of that woman, a bit of worry prickled. His wife was alone with her, after all. "Well?"

"Just talk to her sometimes. At first she seems like a harmless woman, a little eccentric, but fine, even interesting. But soon you notice this look in her eye. And if she likes you enough, she'll start telling you about… about the Order." He said this last part quietly, as if he was afraid someone would hear and start reprimanding him.

Will fidgeted. He instantly knew that whatever this Order was, it had to do with religion. "What? A cult?"

The man nodded. "It's this old religion that has roots in this town. It's never spread anywhere else, as far as I can tell. But it fizzled out _years_ ago, so no one really thinks much of it. Except for Dahlia. Coming from her, you'd almost think that it still existed."

Will glanced at doorway to the store, and he felt something in him start to sink, like those stairs to the door he couldn't see. "Well… just a harmless old woman," he said unconvincingly.

"I'd think so too, if it weren't for everything I've heard about her daughter." A pause. "A few months ago, two guys tried to rob the store. When the police arrived, they were dead." He stared straight at Will, as if to make it perfectly clear that he was not joking. "These were healthy, tough guys. No bullet or knife wounds. Not even bruises or bumps."

Will looked back at the man on the bench, who turned away to stare at the cars passing on the street. He looked back to the store, and still his wife did not appear. He pushed off the tree and hurried down the stairs, stopping outside the closed door and peering through the window. His wife and Dahlia were bent over something on the front counter. Vicky seemed pensive, while Dahlia spoke enthusiastically. Will pushed through the door just as Dahlia was putting money into the register and Vicky was inspecting a pendant on a chain lying in her palm.

Will grabbed Vicky's arm. "Paid for it? Fine, let's go."

Vicky threw Dahlia an apologetic glance over her shoulder. "Thank you!"

Dahlia smiled. "Oh, thank _you_, dear."

The door behind the counter opened and Alessa stepped back into the shop, carrying a chipped landscape painting. She moved slowly toward the blank spot on the wall so as not to drop the cumbersome artwork. Dahlia's blue eyes hardened as her gaze slid from her customers to her daughter.

Vicky smiled at the girl, but Will saw something in the shopkeeper that he didn't like at all, and dragged his wife out of the store.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Vicky wore the pendant that night. Will didn't know why, but he hated the thing, especially after his wife told him what it was supposed to be for. He did his best to ignore it, but the next morning when he woke and saw the chain around her neck, the talisman laying between her breasts, he couldn't stand it anymore. He took the chain between his fingers, and slid it carefully around her neck until he had the clasp. He undid it and took the necklace off her. She only stirred once.

He got out of bed and slipped it into his robe pocket. He didn't know what he would do with it. Take it back? He'd rather just get rid of it. He knew he was probably overreacting, that he'd just let what the man on the bench said get to him, but… He reached into the pocket again and felt the metal. It was already cold, despite laying on his wife's skin moments before. He recoiled. God, he hated it.

"Hm?" Vicky was waking up. "Will?"

He turned around, tried to act natural. "Hey. What do you think about going out for breakfast?"

She sat up, yawned, tried to shake sleep away. "Oh, um… Sure."

"You can shower first."

"Mmm… 'kay." She slid out of bed and padded drowsily into the bathroom, closing the door.

Before she was done, Will had hurried downstairs and out the back of the hotel, stood on the dock, and hurled the pendant into Toluca Lake.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Nine months later, Henry Townshend was born. As he grew older, his parents' marriage grew stale and irritable, and he preferred to keep to himself. They were a family of tension and detachment-- except for their vacations in Silent Hill, where for brief periods they were healed by the town's deceptive serenity, forming Henry's few fond memories of childhood.

* * *

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

So... yup. Will and Vicky and their strained marriage return! Poor Vicky. She's so naive.

I'm seeing the Silent Hill movie Friday afternoon/evening. I hope, **hope**, it doesn't suck. That's all I ask. It could be just okay and I'd be happy. (Of course, I'm seeing it again with my dad no matter what. Wee, I'm a dork!)

Oh, and I finally decided to get a livejournal. gaiafaye dot livejournal dot com! So friend or watch if you like. I'm, er, not exactly sure how I'm gonna use it yet, but we'll see.


	21. Chapter Seventeen

**Disclaimer:** You know what you get when you sue college students? Not a hell of a lot.

**Author's Notes:** I probably should have posted this earlier than now, but I thought maybe I could add more to it. And I was wrong.

Saw the SH movie by the way. If you care what I think, I should express my thoughts on LJ sometime soon. Anywho, onward!

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**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN  
****Desperation**

First. message. Received. on. Sunday. April. tenth. at. eleven. twelve. a.m.

_Henry, this is Patrick. It's past eleven and you should've been here almost an hour ago. Get your ass over here with a damned good excuse._

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Second. message. Received. on. Monday. April. eleventh. at. ten. four. teen. a.m.

_Henry, it's Patrick again. You're on thin ice, buddy! This is two days in a row you've been a no-call, no-show. I would've expected this from Steve, but not you! This is usually my limit, but since you're usually the only competent waiter I have, you better show up for your shift on Wednesday and give me one hell of an explanation. I had to call fuckin' Tina in for you! It was a fiasco! Don't make me put up with that bimbo more than I have to!_

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Third. message. Received. on. Tuesday. April. twelfth. at. six. seven. teen. a.m.

_Hello, dear! It's Mom! You're probably sleeping, I know, but I'm waiting for your father in the cutest little café! I really wish you'd decided to come with us. Your father is a complete bore as usual. I know you would be enjoying this as much as I am. Italy is such a beautiful country! Rome_ _was absolutely gorgeous. You would've managed to get such lovely photographs too. Your father is so dreadful at it, all I'll have left is my memories when we get back! Ha ha! Listen, in a couple weeks we're going to visit your father's friend in Brahms, so I thought we could stop by on the way there or on the way back and see you! I miss you so much, dear. Honestly, ever since you moved to South Ashfield, you haven't been keeping proper contact. Tsk, tsk! Hmm… unless there's a girl in your life you haven't told us about! Ha ha, you know I'm just teasing you, dear. Though, it would be nice. Oh, there's your father! Call me back on the cell! Kisses!_

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Fourth. message. Received. on. Wednesday. April. thirteenth. at. seven. twenty. five. a.m.

_It's Mom again! Are you okay, hon'? You usually call me back. Don't tell me you're getting tired of your own mother? Ha ha! Let me know when it's okay for us to stop by when we get back to the States. Your father is going to let me shop today. I'm going to see how long it takes for him to regret it! I'll bring you back something special._

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Fifth. message. Received. on. Wednesday. April. thirteenth. at. three. twenty. six. p.m.

_Henry, you're fired._

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Sixth. message. Received. on. Friday. April. fifteenth. at. seven. nine. teen. p.m.

_Henry, dear, I'm getting really worried now. I don't mean to nag, but I am your mother, and I just got off the phone with Sheila. The connection wasn't the best, but she said something about an attack in South_ _Ashfield_ _Heights? It didn't sound like she meant you, but… Please call me and let me know you're okay! I-- hm? I'm on the phone now, Will. No, it's the machine. Henry, please call us!_

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Seventh. message. Received. on. Friday. April. fifteenth. at. ten. thirty. four. p.m.

_Henry! Henry, where are you! We're coming home on the next flight. Sheila called us on her house phone and said that there was a beating and another murder and everyone was sent to the hospital and-- Henry, your father told you that place was a hole! Why didn't you listen to us and move some place safe! Oh, God… I'm going to call the hospital._

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Eighth. message. Received. on. Saturday. April. sixteenth. at. three. forty. seven. p. m.

_Oh God Henry tell me it's not true! Pick up the phone PICK UP THE GODDAMN PHONE! That can't be you… It can't be you! You-- Will, let go of me! No, I have to tell him to call-- THAT IS NOT MY SON! That-- that _corpse _is not my baby! It's not! It's not! IT'S NOT--_

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Ninth. message. Received. today. at. one. fifty. two. a.m.

_Henry… Henry, baby… Please…_

* * *

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Um... yeah. You know what's funny? I just realized I originally wrote this part, like, A YEAR AGO.


	22. Chapter Eighteen

**Disclaimer:** Silent Hill is owned by Konami. It's good that way. They've done pretty well with it so far, don't ya think?

**Author's Notes:** Why is it every summer I think I'm gonna have all this time to write, when I know I get a summer job? Here's the next installment of Impaired, a month after the short Chapter Seventeen. Stuff happens. w00t w00t

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**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN  
****Contradiction**

"I don't think he's absorbing the information, Mother," Alice said quietly. She stood at the head of the room with Miranda. In front of them, the children sat at rows of tables and scribbled on sheets of paper. "He just becomes more despondent each day."

Miranda sighed. "I can hardly say I expected him to accept everything in such a short time," she replied, also keeping her voice low. "He is stubborn."

"I know," Alice said. "I'm just worried that it will affect whether he is chosen for Paradise…"

Miranda smiled warmly. "That is God's decision, but I hardly think She will reject him. You just do your duty. I'm sure it's getting through, but he just does not want to acknowledge it." She added, "The Son has faith in him. Doesn't that assure you?"

Alice ducked her head. "Oh, yes. But it's difficult not to worry regardless."

"Our faith is the most valuable thing we have," Miranda reminded her. "Do not allow yourself to compromise it with doubt."

The teacher nodded, looking assured. "You're absolutely right, Mother."

They were quiet for a moment, watching the children work intently with their stubby crayons. Miranda's gaze fell on Deirdre, who sat in the center of the room, absentmindedly twirling a blonde pigtail as she decided on her next color.

Alice's eyes also rested upon the girl. "She's doing better than I expected," she admitted.

"I told you. She's a cheeky child, but her faith is strong."

"Yes…" Alice was still troubled. "I'm not surprised that she was curious about him."

"Well, those escapades are done with," Miranda said. "There won't be time for them anyway," she added with a pleased tone.

Alice turned toward her and whispered anxiously. "Have we gotten all of the new ritual?"

"Almost. I'm certain of it. Just one more piece is missing."

Alice clasped her hands together and bowed her head. "That is wonderful to hear."

Miranda nodded in agreement and rested a hand on Alice's arm. "I must get back to my chamber. I'm sending word to the other sects."

Alice smiled. "Of course. Good day, Mother Miranda."

"Good day, Sister."

Alice turned to the boys and girls. "Children?"

They all promptly looked up and said in chorus: "Good day, Mother Miranda!"

Miranda replied, "God keep you."

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Ivan was sitting at her desk, in her chair. When she had come in, he had looked up from a worn, leather-bound book with black ink scrawled into its pages. Miranda wasn't sure what she was seeing. It was wholly unexpected. She looked into Ivan's guiltless eyes and said sternly, "What are you doing?"

She wanted him to be ashamed, embarrassed, but he was only sheepish. "I'm sorry I came in without your knowledge, Mother."

She shook her head, jabbed a finger at the book. "No. That. What are you doing with _that_?"

Finally he seemed to understand that he was somehow in the wrong. He leaned away from the book and averted his gaze. "I… Well…" He clearly wasn't sure what he'd done to earn her anger, and therefore was afraid to implicate himself of anything further. Finally he stood up and moved away from the desk. "You are always saying how the Brothers and Sisters don't have enough of an understanding of our ways," he said quickly. "So I thought I could educate myself, help you with the others." Her cold expression did not change, and he rambled on. "Not that I could fully educate myself, no! But… But I could try and-and you could clarify for me, obviously! But only if you have the time, of course--"

"Be quiet, Ivan." Miranda sighed heavily. "I should blame myself for being so forthcoming with you without reinforcing the boundaries that are usually well understood between a Priestess and a Brother."

Ivan only became more apologetic. "No, no, Mother, I shouldn't have been so, so…"

"Stupid," she finished sharply, moving around the desk and sitting down.

He winced.

Miranda glared at him a moment longer, then eased her expression to that of calm authority. She opened a drawer and pulled out a letter opener, tapping the blade on two unopened envelopes by the open book. "Now, I suppose I should ask if you have learned anything from Father Stone's journal that needs further clarification."

He looked unsure, but he posed a question right away. "I… was reading an entry from just before the start of the Twenty-One Sacraments, concerning the Son and his role…" He trailed off, obviously reconsidering if he should say anything at all.

Miranda chuckled dryly and even set a small smile upon her lips. She stood, still grasping the letter opener. She moved over to him and set her free hand on his shoulder. "Go on."

"It… It says that the angel Valtiel was invoked into the Son's mind." He shifted uneasily, glancing at the journal. "To make him perform the ritual."

She said nothing, waited for his thoughts. Idly, she brought up the hand with the tool and flipped her wrist back, holding the opener so the blade pointed away from her and Ivan.

The young man didn't even glance at the tool. "It's just that… The Son was trained from childhood, brought up in our ways, our faith. I don't understand how such a drastic measure was needed."

Miranda nodded. Her smile was easier, and she replied with authoritative ease. "Despite his divinity, the Son is still human, moreso then than now. Cowardice haunts us all, and sometimes God's hand is needed." As if to accentuate the point, she tapped him below the shoulder with the letter opener.

He almost shook his head, but caught himself. She saw it. "But… we all have fear, and it is our faith in God that pushes us to overcome adversity. Why wasn't the Son's faith enough?"

"This was a delicate ritual," she said. "We invested so much time into the Son, Father Stone wanted to be sure nothing went awry. Our duty to God had to be fulfilled."

"Oh…" He was trying to please her, she knew. He was trying to sound as if he understood. But the problem was still there in his curious mind, just as it was in her stomach. Why didn't Father Stone put more into faith?

Miranda looked into his eyes for one moment, two. The blade's handle was warm in her palm. She loosened her hold so that the blade swung down, and she affirmed her grip again so that it pointed to the floor. Ivan's eyes finally fell away from hers and he said, "I'm sorry for breaking your trust, Mother."

Miranda let go of his shoulder and gestured with the letter opener to the door. "I am feeling quite tired today," she said. "But there is still work to be done." She sat at her desk again. "Would you mind checking up on supper?"

"Of course, Mother Miranda." He bowed his head and retreated.

She was grateful when the door closed behind him. She slipped the tip of the blade under the fold of one of the envelopes and tore it open. She pulled out a piece of paper and tried to read it, but her vision kept focusing past the letter, to Stone's journal lying open in front of her. She dropped the paper and smacked the book closed, pressing down heavily on the cover.

Ten years ago, feeling as though despite his efforts the Order was falling apart, Jimmy Stone decided to begin the Twenty-One Sacraments. But there was a problem: the Conjurer was unwilling. Even though his faith in God and his desire to see his mother were strong, the young man was too conflicted, too cowardly to see it through. So George Rosten suggested a method of convincing the Conjurer to do his duty.

They lured Walter back to Wish House and performed a spell, conjuring the angel Valtiel to give the Conjurer the will to do what he must. It was Valtiel's influence, his obligation to see God reborn, that pushed Walter through his doubts and allowed the sacrifices to take place. Of course, it had been carried out in some unexpected ways.

Though Stone and Rosten had planned to tell no one of their manipulations, Stone had recorded it in his personal journal, which Miranda had come across once she became head of the faith. It had surprised her, but explained Walter's sudden change of heart. She also decided to keep it secret, for the very reason Ivan had demonstrated just minutes ago.

Doubt.

In an organization such as the Order, at a time when the near-restoration of God seemed to be collecting all the shattered pieces, doubt was dangerous. When they were so close to Paradise, doubt could destroy everything. She didn't need more of Ursula's behavior.

But now the secret was out, and Ivan was young and more foolish than she had thought. She would have liked to think that he would keep this to himself, but she also never thought she'd find him rummaging around her office, as good as her intentions were.

Miranda had two options for damage control. She could trust Ivan, and if the matter did get out to the other members, she could assuage them with her words to the boy. Or she could take care of Ivan permanently, either by herself or by putting an order to Father Hayes of the Valtiel Sect.

The second option was fairly dramatic, however. She had seen the look in Ivan's eyes. He would never make trouble for her if he could help it. And even if he did mention his discovery to the other members, there was so little time until the Realization that it hardly mattered. And she had to admit that she was actually somewhat fond of the boy, and didn't want harm to come to him.

She would leave the matter be, she decided.

Miranda had actually wondered if she should remove Valtiel's influence from Walter. She did not think his behavior would be much different; the angel had been affirming his faith for so long, after all. The slightest error, however, could ruin the coming of Paradise. Besides, if God had thought Valtiel's work was over, She would have sent some sign.

Walter entered without knocking. Miranda stared at him for a moment, keeping her gaze impassive, before placing the journal in the drawer. She then turned her eyes onto the letter she had dropped on the desk. "What is it, Walter?"

"Henry. He is resisting Mom again."

"He will break. It will become too much for him," Miranda said, gaze running back and forth across the words. "It always does."

Walter shook his head. "He's in pain."

Miranda looked up at him, and she smiled. "I understand you care for him, but he still must learn not to refuse Her." She turned her attention back to the letter-- from Mother Collins, she noted with annoyance-- and expected Walter to leave. But there were no footsteps and the door did not close. She raised her eyes to him again.

"He has been like this for a long time," Walter said.

Miranda frowned. Walter was a patient man. What was 'a long time' to him? She nodded and opened the drawer above her lap, flipping through the papers there until she found what she was looking for. She folded it and slipped it into her pocket, got up, and moved to the door. Miranda stopped in the doorway and looked up at the Son. "Walter."

"Yes, Mother Miranda?"

"You will always love your Mother no matter what, yes?"

His brow came down slightly. He didn't understand the question. "Yes. Of course."

She placed a hand on his upper arm. "That's good."

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Henry was curled into a ball on the living room floor between the coffee table and the kitchen counter. A bar stool was knocked over. Miranda moved it and stared down at him. He breathed heavily even through his teeth, his eyebrows were strung tightly together, and his fingers dug into his head, as if he could release the pressure if he could make just one crack. Occasionally he would make a noise of pain.

"He won't tell me," Walter said.

Miranda observed the Receiver for another moment, then bent down and grabbed his shoulders. She sat him up and put her face close to his, not at all repulsed by the drooping eyelids over the gaps in his head. "Tell me what you see and hear," Miranda said quietly.

Henry almost shook his head, but the movement strained his concentration and he stopped. No. No, he would not fucking help them anymore. Henry gritted his teeth and covered his head with his arms. He tried to will away the crushing pain, the images, the noises. He couldn't tell them this. No no no no no no…

One hand let go of his shoulder. There was a shuffling sound. Henry felt her nearer; she had knelt down beside him. She spoke softly to him, but in a lucid tone that he could hear over the swelling pulse in his head.

"We don't want to draw any attention to ourselves during this delicate time," she said. "But we will if we have to." There was a tiny crinkling sound. She had a paper in her hands from her pocket. She read: "Seven-thirteen Forsythia Road, Green Glen, Connecticut."

Henry groaned.

"If we have to, Henry," she went on, "we can send Walter there."

Oh, God. His parents. Oh, God.

"Is that what you want us to do?"

Oh, God. Tell them tell them tell them. But what about Eileen? But Mom and Dad. Oh, God, his head just wouldn't stop pounding pounding pounding and it was like his heart had moved into his head and was pulsing and his skull was cracking and his brain was trying to squeeze through the crevasses and if he told them it would stop but Eileen he couldn't do that to her but his parents oh God what would Walter do to them--

Miranda sighed. "Walter--"

"Eileen!" Henry shouted.

"Hm?"

"The…" Henry swallowed. Already the pressure was lessening, but something sunk its teeth into his insides. "… the vessel for the Holy Mother."

"Resurrect her?"

"Y-yes." The gnawing thing tore viciously at him. "The Twentieth. The Mother Reborn. Bring her back." As Henry spoke, he realized he was crying.

"How do we prepare her for the Holy Mother?"

"I don't… know…" he choked, pulling at his hair.

"Walter--"

"I don't know yet!" Henry snapped.

A pause, then a hand stroked his back. "Thank you, Henry."

Henry jerked away from her, then lashed out a hand and hit her in the side. She stumbled back and would have fallen if Walter had not caught her and set her upright. She smoothed out her skirt and gave the man on the ground a glare. Without another word, she turned and left.

Henry gritted his teeth, breathing hard. He felt Walter kneel down in front of him before some cloth started to wipe at the wetness on his cheeks. Henry grabbed it from him, shoved it to his chest, felt a spiteful, insignificant thrill when he heard the damn psycho fall backwards.

"Henry--"

"Fuck you," he said hoarsely.

"I wouldn't have wanted to do it."

"Oh, well, it's just GODDAMN FINE THEN!" Henry screamed.

Walter's hand pressed to his arm. "Henry--"

"_DON'T_ _FUCKING TOUCH ME!_" He scrambled backwards until his back was up against the kitchen's bar counter.

Walter moved forward, tried to offer comfort again, and this time Henry grabbed his hair and twisted, smashed his face into the front of the counter once, twice, until Walter grabbed his hands and pried them off. Henry ripped his hands from Walter's hold and tried to move away.

Then Walter's arms were wrapped around his torso and his face was buried in Henry's stomach, and he was saying, "Please don't hate me. Please don't hate me anymore. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please don't hate me. Let me in."

Henry lifted his hands and covered his face, pressing his palms against his lips as his chest hitched. He was crying again.

"Let me in. Let me in."

* * *

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Dun dun dunnnnn. Please review, good sir/madam.


	23. Chapter Nineteen

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. NOTHING!

**Author's Note:** Omg. It's _done_. Finally. This chapter took forever since me and da beta (Literary Alchemist) had a long back and forth about a particular part. But it's done now, and you can read it, and I can go take a break. Buh.

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**CHAPTER NINETEEN  
****Expectation**

Hide and seek was far more fun in Silent Hill than it had been in the outside world. Even if you had a poor hiding place, the pervasive fog helped obscure you from the seeker. Playing in the woods was even more fun, since there were so many places to take cover.

Elizabeth crouched in a cluster of bushes, peering through the twigs and leaves to see if anyone was around. In the distance she saw Deirdre lurking between the trees, her white dress blending with the mist. Elizabeth held her breath until the other girl walked off, disappearing into the fog. Elizabeth sighed in relief. Her knees hurt, so she sat cross-legged instead and looked around once more to see if maybe Deirdre had made a wide circle. But there was no movement, no noise.

Until there was a snapping sound above and something crashed down through the cover of the bushes, landing beside her. She screamed and it grabbed her, snagging her arm and clapping a hand over her mouth. She bit the palm and shoved the intruder away, finally getting a clear look at him.

"_Joey!_" she snapped.

"Shut up!" he groaned, clutching his hand and glaring at her. "Deirdre will hear."

"Like she didn't hear you fall!" Elizabeth hissed, glowering back.

"Hmph." He returned her angry look and rubbed his sore hip.

She looked down at his hand. "Are you okay?" she muttered, folding her arms in an attempt to look angry.

He nodded. "I'm fine."

They sat in silence for a minute or two.

"I guess she didn't hear," Joey said.

"Guess not," Elizabeth agreed.

"Do you think it's almost lunch time?" he asked. "I'm hungry."

"I 'unno," she replied, shrugging.

Quiet again. Joey rose on his knees and peeked around before sitting again. Elizabeth rubbed her arm and didn't look at him. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She looked up then and caught his gaze, and she shifted away from him. She tilted her head back, peering at the drab vapor wafting through the tree tops, and wondered how far up the gray went.

"This is boring," Joey complained.

"Then go back to camp," she muttered, lowering her eyes to the leaves in front her.

He didn't move. "Did you finish your dress for the Realization?"

She didn't smile, but raised her chin proudly. "Almost. I just gotta do the one sleeve. Sister Alice said I did really good."

"My robe's not so good."

She smiled then.

He looked at the ground. "Um... I... I think you'll look really pretty in yours."

Elizabeth's smile faded. She didn't say anything. She only looked surprised. Joey's face turned bright red and he kept his eyes on the ground. After a moment, she scooted a little closer to him and mumbled, "Thanks."

"You're welcome," he said, glancing at her.

About a minute passed, and in a flash of movement Elizabeth leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, then sat back as if nothing had happened. Joey blushed even more.

A twig snapped behind them. When they turned, massive hands dipped into their hiding spot and pushed the brush aside, snapping and scattering twigs all around them. The two children latched onto each other and screamed.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

At the loud shrieking, the other boys and girls emerged from their hiding spots. After a moment of bewilderment, they all moved toward the sound, clustering together as they came across one another. The yelling died down by the time they reached Joey and Elizabeth, still huddled and clinging to each other in the bushes with Walter towering over them.

"Are you okay?" Deirde asked them, though she only glanced at them once, eyes trained up at the Son.

"Y-yeah," Elizabeth said. She and Joey finally realized they were hugging and quickly pushed away from each other embarrassedly.

But as they stood up, the other children had no mercy. "Lizzy and Joey sittin' in a tree!" one boy called out, and the rest of them joined in. "_K-I-S-S-I-N-G!_ _First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes Joey with the baby carriage!_" They broke into laughter as they finished, enjoying Elizabeth's and Joey's red faces.

Walter simply watched and listened, and when the children finished they remembered that he was there. Ever the ambassador, Deirdre bowed her head to him. "Hello," she said. "... How are you?"

"You're bleeding!" one of the girls exclaimed suddenly.

Walter looked at her, then rubbed a red blotch off his cheek. There was no cut beneath. The children fell silent. The fog thinned, and not far beyond the Son the children could see a downed figure, its head twisted away from them. A small creature prowled around the dead man, its tail twitching as it appeared to be swatting at his pockets.

Walter stepped to the side, obscuring the body. He looked down at all the children, then up at the dreary sky, then back down. "I think it's time for lunch," he said.

The boys and girls exchanged looks and decided it was proper to follow the Son's suggestion. They understood he was doing God's work, but they didn't want to remain near the body any longer. After several shy goodbyes and nervous glances in the direction of the dead intruder, they scurried off into the fog.

Walter had begun to follow them, but something warm brushed past his leg. He looked down. A black cat stared up at him earnestly, something clunky and silver sticking out of its mouth. Walter knelt down and took it, holding it up in front of his face. It was small and plastic with an antenna sticking up on the right side. It vibrated and he unfolded it carefully, revealing numbered buttons on one side and bright blue screen on the other. The screen read "Jon." Walter pressed the "TALK" button and put the phone to his ear.

"Nick? Are you there?" a male voice barked. "Hello? I can't hear you! Look, I'm at the jewelry store but she's not here. Can you hear me? I'll wait there for you. Hello? Dammit."

Silence. Walter lowered the device from his ear and looked down at the screen. It flashed 00:12; the call was over. He closed the phone and dropped it to the ground. He got to his feet and headed towards Central Silent Hill.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

An hour later, Walter let the body fall to the floor of McCormick Treasure Chest. The marks on his face and throat where the man had clawed at him vanished. Walter wondered why the nonbelievers kept coming here. Mother had made it clear that they weren't wanted. He looked down at the mangled body and saw jewelry spilling out of the man's pockets. The items had been snatched from the shattered glass cases lined up around the store.

Walter looked away from the corpse. He was done here. He walked to the door, and before he opened it looked back over his shoulder to give the store a quick once over. His eyes fell on an open box on the counter where the nonbeliever had been standing when Walter walked in. He could see a pendant resting on a sheet of fluffy cotton. The man had likely been about to take it until he was interrupted. But it was no matter. Walter wanted to get back to Henry. His hand rested on the door, ready to push it open, but he could not take his eyes away from the box. He lowered his hand and moved over to the counter, stepping over the body.

Walter looked down at the pendant, but could see nothing very remarkable about it. Next to the open box was a note:

_Mrs. Terelli—_

_The pendant was a tough job, but it cleaned up surprisingly well! I have to say, I never thought something this lovely would come out of a trout. I'd love your husband to fish for me some time._

_The chain was unsalvageable, but I've enclosed a new one free of charge._

_Thank you for your business. We hope you return to Silent Hill next year!_

_Colin McCormick_

_Owner, McCormick Treasure Chest_

Walter held the pendant in his palm, the chain draping over his hand. It was a bright white oval stone set in a gold disc. He turned it over, and was surprised to see a very faint etching of the Halo of the Sun, the symbol of the Order, on the back. An old talisman?

Cocking his head to the side, Walter wondered if Henry would like it. It certainly didn't belong in this abandoned nonbeliever shop. He curled his fingers around the pendant and slipped it into his pocket. He stepped over the body and left the store.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Ever since he had told Miranda about Eileen the day before, Henry had fallen silent. He refused to answer any of Walter's questions, and said nothing to Sister Alice when they began yet another lesson up in the camp's employee lounge.

Alice persisted in teaching him despite his sulky attitude. Today's curriculum was about the Order's insignia, the Halo of the Sun. Alice sat beside Henry with a large round tile with the symbol engraved into it. She took Henry's hand and traced his fingers over the grooves, told him of all the parts' significance.

"The two outer circles represent charity and resurrection," she said. "Charity is giving and kindness, as God has given and been kind to us. We pay forward through efforts such as Wish House, regardless of how others insist to see them."

Henry hardly thought "kindness" was a word he would associate with an orphanage that sent disobedient children to a tower prison, but he didn't care to speak up. As pleasant as Alice was compared to any of the other cultists, he knew she would just as easily dismiss his arguments. And what was the point anymore?

"Resurrection is also a quality of God, She who was with us in the old times and will one day return to us. She will be reborn and revive all the goodness in mankind.

"These three circles," she continued, moving his hand over the three rings within the insignia, "are for the past, the present, and the future. The whole of time, where God's Love is everlasting." She set his hand on his lap. "The Halo of the Sun is drawn in red, usually. Sometimes black or other colors, but never in blue."

He didn't ask why. He recognized the outer part of the insignia from the holes in his walls, but said nothing, resigned to the ache deep inside him.

"Sister?"

Alice twisted around toward the door. Ivan stood in the doorway, hands braced in front of him, looking uncomfortable.

"I don't mean to bother you," he said, glancing at the Receiver. "I… I can come back later."

"Is it important?" Alice asked.

"I… I don't know…"

She smiled. "I have some time now." She turned to Henry, squeezed his hand. "I'll be right back." Her smile faded when he didn't respond. She patted his shoulder as she stood, and she went out to the hall.

"What's the matter, Ivan?" Alice asked quietly, standing across from him.

The young man looked into the room at the unmoving Receiver's back. "I… Is it alright to close the door?"

Alice glanced around the room. There was no way for Henry to try and escape, so she pulled the door shut. "What's bothering you?" She ducked her head, trying to catch the boy's gaze. He was staring at the floor, hesitating.

"I'm not sure if I should say anything…" He looked up earnestly. "But I trust you, Sister Alice. I want you to understand that I'm asking you this because I don't want to upset Mother Miranda, and I'm sure you can help me."

Alice frowned. "Ivan, if it's something so serious, maybe--"

"Sister," Ivan interrupted, taking her hands and holding them tightly, as if they gave him the nerve he needed. "I made a mistake yesterday. I thought I could help Mother by learning more about our faith, and I came across Father Stone's journal. I thought it would have some insights, but instead it… it…"

Alice shook her head. "Those sorts of things are not for you, Ivan," she chided lightly. "I know you were trying to help, but--"

"Let me tell you," he insisted. "There was an entry about the Son, from before the Twenty-One Sacraments even started. The Son didn't do the ritual by himself. Valtiel was brought into his mind to help him, to make sure it got done." He looked to her pleadingly.

Alice recognized the issue. "I see," she said quietly.

"Tell me, Sister, why would that occur? He is the Mother's Son. Yet a mere angel was necessary?" He smiled. "I know you can tell me."

Alice bowed her head, still holding Ivan's hands as she pondered. After a moment she looked up and said, "Ivan… I need time to give this some thought." She pulled her hands from his and took hold of his shoulders. "I'm sure I'll have an answer for you soon." She gestured to the closed door. "But for now I must finish the Receiver's lesson."

Ivan nodded enthusiastically. "Of course, Sister. Thank you very much."

She smiled at him warmly, though the questions lurked around in her head. "Have faith. Good day, Brother."

He returned the sentiment and left. Alice opened the lounge door and stepped back in, about to ask Henry if he had any questions before they moved on. Instead, she put a hand over her mouth to stifle her "oh!" Henry stood at the wall with a piece of chalk she had left on the table, and he dragged it widely along the far wall, completing the outer circle of the Halo of the Sun.

Alice's eyes roamed over the drawing, so remarkably perfect. The runic symbols, the rings, every line unerring. Her gaze fell back to the blind man who had done it. An excited smile spread across her face, and tears came to her eyes.

Finally she whispered, "Receiver…"

Henry stopped. Then his brow narrowed; he was confused. His arm lowered to his side and his fingers spun the chalk, as if he was trying to figure out why he had it. He stopped, stepped back away from the wall. "What…" he began.

"The Halo of the Sun," Alice breathed.

The chalk snapped in half, and the pieces fell to the ground. Henry pulled at his hair and muttered rapidly, "Get Her out. I want Her out. Out out out out out…"

Alice moved toward him to offer comfort, but there was a knock at the door. Walter had arrived, and the moment he saw Henry in distress he hurried over to him. Walter said soft, soothing things, but Henry did not reply, he ignored him, still begged the Mother to leave him, as Walter led him from the room. Alice said nothing, merely stood in the doorway, solemnly watching Walter and thinking.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

She was hiding somewhere. Outside in a mist. She looked down. Her hands pressed against a large rock. She was crouched behind it, amid trees. She looked over her shoulder. The edge of a wood. She faced forward and peered ahead. The fog thinned and she could make out a small group of people on a dock. Boats rocked below them.

There were five. An old woman. A young man. Both dressed in black. The young man restrained a screaming dark-haired woman. A tall man in a blue coat carried a blind-folded man.

She moved to climb over the rock. A chorus of meows stopped her. She turned. Dozens, hundreds, thousands of black cats, yellow eyes glinting in the dull light of the forest. It was impossible to take them all in at once, dizzying, daunting, devouring her sight. Then one pounced, and the others followed as if they were one, swarming upon her. The shrieking pain was everywhere. Claws tore at her clothes and scratched at her face. Teeth snagged her hair, ripping it out in clumps, like the flesh they had uncovered through her tattered jeans. She looked down as they gouged through her pelvis and went at her insides, dragging out bloody balloons of pink tissue and gnawing at parts still inside. Wrenching agony and warm blood spread across her hips and ran down her thighs

"Heather!"

and she wanted to scream but there was no sound or her mouth wouldn't open. Her arms and legs wouldn't move and she couldn't close her eyes so she wouldn't see theirs glittering mad gold. Her ovaries and womb ripped from her in jerks and snaps of pain, no longer worthy of birth because she was here: the cycle was at an end and she was a traitor traitor traitor and would pay with blood, life, fertility sinking into the ground, tearing in vicious teeth, sliding down blood-slicked gullets in tribute to Her before they started on the rest. Muscle stripped from her skeleton, burning up and down her legs, sparks of pain when the jaws snapped her bones apart and then violent seizing horror as they dove into the empty cavity between her hips, burrowing upwards to her twisted stomach, paralyzed lungs, hammering heart until the teeth sunk in and it burst with brilliant light

"Heather! Hea- Cheryl! Whatever! Wake up!"

Heather snapped her head up. Colleen shook her shoulder and stared at Heather warily. Heather glanced up to the front of the car to see Jeremy and Steve frowning at her.

"You okay?" Colleen asked, concern etched into her face. "You were groaning and yelling and stuff."

Heather looked down at her stomach, not sure whether she should be surprised to not see her ovaries slipping out of some heinous wound with blood running down her legs, saturating the back of Jeremy's car. She raised her head again and managed to laugh convincingly despite how it jarred her stomach. "Just some bizarre nightmare," she said, shaking her head.

Colleen smiled, and the two boys seemed satisfied and got out of the car. "We're here," Colleen said, opening the door on her side.

Heather looked out the window to see that they had indeed arrived at Happy Burger. She slipped out of the car and went inside with the other three. She and Colleen picked a booth while the boys went to order food. As she sat down, Colleen started giggling about Steve, fiddling with her necklace and flicking her gaze over to him from time to time.

Heather found it hard to pay attention. She drummed her fingers on the table impatiently. It had been five days since the night in the diner, and she'd heard nothing from Ursula. The woman had promised she'd get in touch with her within three days, whether she had information or not. Heather had heard nothing. Something had happened. She was certain that the stumpy little woman was dead. And the dream had given her no good tidings either.

After her time in Silent Hill all those months ago, Heather had become wary of her dreams. It was no coincidence that she had dreamed of that damned amusement park and found herself there the next day. So it was certainly no coincidence that this was the third time she'd had that dream with the cats. Those damn fucking cats. Ugh. And she thought dogs were bad.

"Heather?"

"Huh?" She looked up, blinking away her thoughts.

Colleen smiled, waving her hand in front of the other girl's face. "I thought you were ignoring me for a second there! Oh." She clapped a hand to her forehead. "It's 'cause I didn't say 'Cheryl,' right?"

Heather shook her head and attempted a grin. "No, I was just off in space." Hell, she had trouble calling herself Cheryl most of the time, even after all these months. It was just so… strange. She'd declared the new name to Douglas at the end of that horrible night almost on a whim, on an urge to find some meaningful way to remember her father.

It was harder than she thought. "Heather" had always had her father, her protector, the strongest man in the world helping her at every stage of her life. "Cheryl" was admitting, really accepting, that he was dead, gone forever. She wasn't ready for that. It was hard to imagine she'd ever be. But getting her friends to remind her of it, even if they didn't know why, maybe that would help.

Heather's thoughts wandered away from Colleen's voice again as she thought about Douglas. He called her usually twice a month to check on how she was doing. Last she'd heard from him, he was out in California following around some poor sucker's gold digging wife. She had actually thought of calling him, getting his help again, but she could never reach for the phone. Last time he'd wound up with a broken leg. She hated to think what could happen to him if she asked him to accompany her to that place again.

The boys arrived with trays of food, and soon the four teens were stuffing their faces. After a few moments, Jeremy started conversation.

"My mom's all buggin' out," he said.

"Why?" Colleen asked.

"She's always buggin' out," Steve snickered.

"She's worried about her friend who lives in Silent Hill."

"Ugh." Colleen shook her head and held up a hand to stop him. "Don't talk about that place."

Heather ignored her burger and fries. "Well, she's not there now, obviously," she insisted. "Everyone was driven out and quarantined, right?"

Jeremy nodded. "Yeah, but my mom's friend wasn't there when that happened. She and her husband were away, so they never got caught."

"If you're trying to tell us that they wandered back in--" Colleen started.

Jeremy cut her off. "Let me finish. Mom's friend and her husband were big into that place, Silent Hill. All the rumors and history-- mythology, I guess. So Mom thinks they _snuck_ back in to see what was going on."

"They've disappeared," Colleen concluded.

Steve snorted. "Smooth move. You couldn't pay me to go there."

Jeremy nodded in agreement. "I don't know what to tell Mom, though. She keeps in touch with the cops over there ever though they keep telling her to give up."

"She shouldn't bother them," Colleen said. "They're busy enough as it is."

Steve swallowed a clump of burger. "Yeah, did you see on the news that they had to, like, expand the… uh… perimeter just to make it stable. Cops kept dying 'cause they were too close. In South Ashfield too, around that apartment."

"My mom updates me enough, 'kay thanks," Colleen complained.

"Your mom's friend studied Silent Hill?" Heather spoke up, looking at Jeremy.

Jeremy glanced up from his food and nodded. "It's a pretty interesting place. She used to come visit and talk about it sometimes. Would email my mom when she found stuff that was particularly weird."

Heather leaned forward. "Like what?"

He shrugged. "Old stories. Bizarre records. Like, Silent Hill had the most executions during the Civil War than any other town. Excessive even. Might've had something to do with some weird cult that used to be there."

"Could we _please_ talk about something else?" Colleen said. "Just thinking about everything that's going on over there freaks me out."

Steve had stuffed his mouth with french fries and he almost choked. He chewed briefly and swallowed them down. "I hate to say it, Col…" He paused to sip his soda. "… but I don't see any reason why it all just won't spread eventually. Then we will have to talk about it."

"It might not," Colleen said quickly.

"What's stopping it?" he countered.

"You don't even know what 'it' is," she replied.

"Neither do you."

"Jeremy," Heather said, ignoring the other two, "you think I could get copies of those emails?"

He quirked an eyebrow. "Eh? Why?"

"Oh, well… It just sounds really interesting. I'd like to read what your mom's friend dug up. Maybe hear the stories you remember." She smiled sweetly at him.

He shifted, smiling back. "I dunno. I mean, I _do_ know her password and all, but Heather--"

"Cheryl," she reminded him, leaning forward with her elbows on the table, cupping her face in her hands.

"Cheryl," he repeated, nodding his head as he spoke as if to shift the information into place. "Well, I guess I could. Whenever Mom's not home, that is. The way she is now, she'd flip if she knew--"

"When's good then?" Heather asked anxiously.

He raised an eyebrow at the interruption. "Got work tonight. Busy tomorrow too. The day after is fine, though."

Heather stopped herself from grimacing. "No sooner?"

He shook his head and smiled apologetically. "Nope. But it's no big hurry, right?"

She forced a smile. "Not really, no… All right then."

"All right then!" Colleen echoed. "Can we please talk about something _normal_ now? Like Jenni! That bitch…"

As Colleen ranted, Heather fell back into her thoughts again. The internet and local library hadn't been able to give her much on Silent Hill in particular, but someone who had studied the place, lived there even, surely they would have something that could help her. To kill an immortal man and defeat a demon, right now she needed all the help she could get. Soon she'd be walking back into that town alone.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Henry sat on the couch and tied the blindfold around his head, trying to find the comfort it had given him before. But there was nothing. Nothing in his head and nothing in his soul and nothing to save him or Eileen or the world. He put his hands over his face. He knew this wasn't helping, his sulking, his silence. But there wasn't anything he could do. Nothing but wait and hope for some miraculous opportunity to present itself. But there were no miracles. There was no God here, only the sinister Mother, holding him close and sneering in his ear.

"I have another present for you," Walter said. Henry kept his hands over his face. Walter took Henry's right hand and pulled it down, slipping something long, thin, and light into Henry's hand. His fingers brushed against it. It felt like a stalk.

"It's a reed," Walter said, with a hint of cheer.

Henry didn't say anything.

"You remember the story of the Beginning. 'The woman offered a reed in exchange for joy.'" Walter took Henry's left hand and brushed it along the dry leaves that stretched away from the stalk.

After a moment, Henry opened his left hand and crushed the reed. "I don't want your goddamn gifts," he said hoarsely. "Don't you get it? Eileen is going to die all over again."

"It is for Mother," Walter insisted, sounding disappointed. "For Paradise. It is an honor to be in the Mother Reborn's position."

"I'm sure," Henry muttered listlessly.

Walter had hoped that the reed would let Henry know that Walter only wanted him to be happy. But he should have known that it wouldn't. Henry still did not believe. Maybe the talisman Walter had found would work better. He fished around in his pocket and brought out the necklace. He knelt down, took Henry's hand again, and placed the pendant in his palm. "This is also for you."

Henry inspected with both hands and laughed incredulously. "Oh, _great_!" he exclaimed. "Jewelry. That's just _great_."

Walter could tell from Henry's tone that it wasn't great at all.

Henry's bitter smile faded away as his thumb rubbed at the stone. He could not feel the symbol inscribed on the back. "It's so cold." He fell quiet again, and he closed his hand tightly around the pendant.

"Henry?" Walter said.

"… Is this… mine?"

Walter smiled. "It's for you, yes."

"No, I mean…" His head fell. Henry had never been one for jewelry, so he _knew_ that he'd never held this necklace before. So why did it feel like he had? He brought the hand with the pendant up to his forehead and the opposite arm braced against his knees. "N-nevermind." He held the necklace out to Walter. "I can't accept this."

Walter took the dangling chain and shook his head. "It's for you," he said as he undid the clasp. He fixed it around Henry's neck despite Henry's protests. "If you feel connected to it, Mother must mean it for you."

Henry wished he hadn't said anything, but he was more troubled that there was something bizarrely familiar about the necklace. He held the pendant in his hands again; it was still so cold. The pendant perplexed him so much that he didn't notice how close Walter was until the other man's hands enclosed his.

Walter's lips only got so far as Henry's cheek when Henry's hand came up and pressed against Walter's face. "I don't think so, buddy," he grunted, pushing Walter away.

Walter sat on the floor and slung his arms over Henry's legs, resting his cheek on Henry's thigh. "I love you," he said.

"No, you don't," Henry mumbled, moving down the couch away from Walter. "You're crazy. Those are two very different things."

"I do," was all Walter said, folding his arms on the now empty cushion. He laid his head down, keeping his eyes on the other man.

Henry pressed the pendant between his hands, trying to get it to warm. But the chill persisted, like ice that never melted.

* * *

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

The next chapter should have a bit from Henry's point of view as a blind man. Recently I realized (with help) that thus far I haven't been doing a good job at portraying that. Grah.

(points at button below) Please?


	24. Chapter Twenty

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, and I definitely can't afford to be sued right now, so have pity.

**Author's Note:** Okay, folks! This is the last update for a while! For those of you who don't know, I'm going to China for a whole month. I won't have my computer, obviously, so I won't really be able to work on Impaired while I'm gone. Not to mention that, you know, I'll be busy teaching and doing tourist things.

Thanks again to **Literary Alchemist** for getting the beta back to me just in time. We did it, man! WE DID IT! (cries)

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**CHAPTER TWENTY  
****Separation**

"Deirdre?"

"Deirdre, where are you?"

"Come back!"

"We gotta go finish our dresses!"

"Deirdre!"

Deirdre huddled behind a tree and ignored the other girls' calls. Tears ran down her red cheeks and she hastily wiped at her puffy eyes. A sob hitched in her chest, but she kept it in, kept quiet as the other girls' worried voices faded away in the direction of Camp Nebi.

She looked up towards the treetops, into the mist surrounding her, trying to find the source of the dull light that made day in Silent Hill. All she could find was gray-- gray, gray, gray. She wrapped her arms around her knees and sniffled. Though she knew she should be grateful to be back on the Holy Ground, she wished she could see the sun again, feel its warmth encompassing her.

The last time she had seen the sun was the day before her sect had moved back into Silent Hill. When they had run away from the town, from the nonbelievers that wanted to take Deirdre and the other girls and boys away, they had gone to live in a house in the woods some place far away. She remembered that the house hadn't been big enough for everyone so some of the adults had to live in tents for a while. The adults had wanted to build another little house, but they hadn't had enough money. It was so crowded that some of them had wound up living in a nearby town, but that was okay because they needed to get jobs there anyway.

They had lived like that for a few years. It was actually a lot like what Deirdre remembered Wish House being, except they had less money. They had to make everything last longer and even hunt animals in the woods for food. Plus they were never allowed to go into the new town, 'cause Miranda said the nonbelievers would try to take the children. It wasn't like when they had been in Silent Hill and there had been people to protect them-- before that article had made everyone hate the Order anyway. Deirdre didn't understand why people would write bad things about Wish House. She thought reporters were supposed to tell the truth. The reporter should have written, "Wish House is a place where orphans live and the Order takes care of them. They learn about God and how She loves them very much." But instead he had written a bunch of lies.

Deirdre hadn't come to Wish House as an orphan. She had come there with her mother, who wanted to help take care of the kids. Deirdre liked to help too by playing with them and being nice to them and trying to cheer them up if they cried. When they had been forced to run from Silent Hill, most of the kids had cried a lot of the time, but Deirdre didn't. She made them feel better. She told them that God was with them no matter where they went, and that they would go back home some day.

And they had, and the day before they returned, in the cover of night, was the last time she had seen the sun. Everyone had been packing up, getting ready to go, but Deirdre's mother was in charge of watching the children while they played, out of the way of the busy grown-ups. Deirdre hadn't felt like playing, so she stayed with her mother. She sat on her mother's lap, wrapped in comforting arms. The bright sun shone down on them, Deirdre's face cast in shadow as her mother looked down on her with a close-lipped smile.

"We're going home," her mother said softly. And the girl had smiled as the woman pressed her lips to her forehead. Deirdre had curled up in her mother's embrace, reaching up to stroke a long lock of blonde hair that fell down her mother's shoulder.

But even then Deirdre had known. Now she struggled to suppress her tears, telling herself over and over that God loved her, that everything was okay, that she shouldn't be sad. But she just felt so bad. It was worse than when her stomach hurt, 'cause there was nothing to throw up. It was just empty. Empty and cold like this colorless place.

Brown shoes crunched in the leaves beside her, and she looked up. The Son towered over her, staring down with a blank expression. Deirdre got to her feet and opened her mouth to say something, to apologize for not being grateful to God, but a choked cry came out instead. She threw herself around his leg, pressed her face into his pant leg, and let out a muffled wail.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Henry could feel the bed frame press across his back, so he knew the bed was behind him. And he'd just pulled a box from the bottom of the closet, so he knew the closet was in front of him. He kept himself pressed to the cold frame to affirm this.

Since he'd lived in the apartment for two years, it hadn't been too difficult for him to get around it without sight. Of course, he often bumped into walls and furniture, and occasionally into Walter, to his chagrin. Even so, without being able to see anything, he always had an underlying sense of being abandoned, lost, always on the verge of wandering into an abyss with never enough time or balance to pull back.

Of the senses he had left, sound was the most prevalent. Taste was fleeting since he couldn't stomach much of anything Walter pushed on him. Touch wasn't much better in an apartment coated in red rust, where the only other person was the _last_ person Henry wanted to touch him. But it was how he got around beside his own memory. Sound, though, sound was the most jarring. It could be familiar or alien, loud or soft, mean nothing or foreshadow a specific purpose. Sound was never certain. Henry could swear he heard a creak across the room, but never figure out where it had come from, what had caused it, or if he had ever really heard it in the first place.

And when Walter was there, Henry would slide between two powerful emotions. Sometimes just the sound of the other man breathing across the room was like sandpaper grinding into Henry's nerves, and he wanted nothing more than to smash Walter's face in. Then there were the other times, when every rustle of clothing sent a wave of trepidation rushing through him, and Henry would find himself curling up, tense, apprehensive. He lost count of the number of times he had to suppress a scream when Walter broke the stillness with a mere word.

Henry gripped his hands tightly around the camera. It was the older of the two he owned, a non-digital model he'd had since before his vacation to Silent Hill a few years ago, ages ago, yesterday. It was familiar, and that was what mattered to him at the moment. He traced his fingers around the lens cap but didn't take it off. There'd be no point. He'd see the same thing where it was on or not. See the same thing whether he developed the film or not.

He'd loved photography ever since he was a boy, when his mother had handed him a cheap disposable camera to run free with. The idea of depicting a scene from life, at the right moment in the right way-- light, angle, subject, mood-- fascinated him. What was it that made that perfect photograph? Luck? Talent? Both? But the satisfaction of getting that perfect shot… Few things in his life beat that feeling. To successfully capture a moment in all of its particulars, that was what had driven his infatuation with photography.

But now he'd never enjoy those moments, those successes again. Never capture anything as his own, while old memories faded and new ones were nothing but barren black.

He held the camera by its side with one hand, raised it up as far as he felt his arm could stretch. He tilted his hand, loosened his fingers, and let it drop. There was a clatter and it must have bounced because it hit something, the side table, he supposed. But it wasn't satisfying. So he did it again, reaching as high as he could, spreading his fingers and letting it fall. Now it sounded like something was loose inside. But that wasn't enough, and it was too slow. Henry grasped the camera again but this time brought it down, slamming it into the carpet. Something cracked. He did it again and again, more force each time, and he felt broken edges press into his fingers, heard the snaps of plastic and pops of glass but eventually just the pounding against the carpet and the wood floor beneath until it matched the pounding in his head. And all the while his jaw was locked, lips pressed together, breathing only through his nostrils no matter how his lungs begged for more air to keep up with the adrenaline.

Soon he wasn't holding onto anything but broken pieces of plastic, jags of metal and a shard from the lens, all cutting into his hand. But then the cuts healed, forcing the debris out, and Henry would've collapsed to the floor if he hadn't flattened his palms against the carpet and finally opened his mouth, taking in desperate gulps of air, spots appearing in his head not from any real sight, but just from the wild firing of signals in his head.

Henry had to force himself to slow his breathing, though his heart was going so fast he was afraid it would rupture, or maybe hoped it would. He could hardly be sure of anything anymore: if he was hopeful that something would save him or miserably resigned to the Holy Mother's empowerment, what would occur when the Realization was finished, what would happen between him and Walter. It was driving him insane, or maybe he already was insane? Here he could never be sure.

God, he had to stop, just stop for a while, a moment, an hour. Just some time without thoughts, some time to just exist without really pondering that existence and wondering when and how it would end.

He grabbed onto the nightstand to pull himself to his feet, and beneath his fingers he felt the thin chain of the necklace Walter had given him. Henry had taken it off the night before when he couldn't get to sleep. It was so cold, as if it had spent ages in the depths of the ocean. For some reason, though, he didn't have the urgent need to get rid of it like he'd had with the doll.

He stood, and when his hand left the side table it brought the chain with it, the weight of the stone or jewel (he wasn't sure which) pulling it down. He held the chain up with one hand and searched for the heavy pendant in the air with the other. It finally bumped into his palm and he closed his hands around it, as if he could snatch up the answer just as easily, the answer to why it was so familiar, why he didn't want to let it go. But as usual there was nothing but the icy blot in his palm.

Henry slipped the chain over his head. He still felt disoriented, and he could swear the bedroom had gotten stuffier. He used the wall as a guide to the open door. He stumbled from the room, from the shattered camera on the floor, and lost his footing, slamming into the bathroom door. He cursed, groaned, and pulled himself up, forcing himself to move slower, pushing against both walls so he wouldn't fall again. He got to the end of the hallway and reached out, stepping forward until his fingers touched the divider that lined the corner of the kitchen, then moved to the right, hunched over and waving his arms to find the coffee table. His foot bumped into its leg, and he felt his way around it, finally making it to the armchair and setting himself down onto the rough cushions.

The amulet came to rest against his chest again, and he clasped both hands around it, as he had done when Walter had given it to him. He'd found that eventually, maybe after half an hour, it would finally get warm, but if it ever left the source of that warmth, it would expel what it had taken and get ice cold again. It drove him crazy, its persistent chill and the strange feeling it gave him, like he'd always had it. But that was stupid, ridiculous.

Of course, all of this was beyond ridiculous.

Henry wouldn't have looked up when Walter came in if it hadn't been for the distinctively childish sobbing that accompanied him. Henry sat up in the stained chair and said earnestly, "Deirdre?"

The girl hiccupped, and then there was the sound of small feet pattering across the carpet. He let go of the necklace and fell back in the chair when she jumped into his lap, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt and burying her face in his chest. Henry wrapped his arms around her and tried to ask her what was wrong, but she could only cry.

Henry raised his head and asked Walter, "What happened? Did they send her back to the Tower? Did they hurt her? What did Miranda do?"

"I don't know," was all Walter said.

Deirdre curled up in Henry's lap, her breath hitching now and then. Henry ducked his head and asked again. "What's wrong? What happened?"

She sniffled. "I miss Mommy…"

Henry's heart crumpled and he held her tighter. "It's okay, Deirdre. It's okay."

She pressed her face into his shirt again. "I'm sorry," she mumbled.

"Sorry for what?" Henry asked.

"I shouldn't be sad," she said. "I'll see her in Paradise. Mother Miranda and Sister Alice said so."

"… Of course," Henry replied quietly.

"Do you think God is mad that I'm sad?"

"No," Henry said quickly, afraid of what Walter would say. "It's okay to feel sad."

She shifted in his lap and her head lifted off his chest. "I… I'm trying to be brave. Mommy told me to. She said it would make her and God happy. But…"

"I'm sure your Mommy is very proud of you." Henry struggled to smile. "Do you want to talk about what happened to her?"

"Henry," Walter said suddenly. "She should get back. The sewing circle begins soon."

Henry ignored him. "Deirdre?"

She sniffled again. "I didn't get to see the Crimson Ceremony for you," she said. "And I'm glad." Her voice cracked. "But I shouldn't be glad about that, I should be glad that she played such a good part."

"What do you mean?"

"When she was sacrificed for you." The girl cuddled up to him again, not noticing when his chest stopped rising and falling. "She wanted to bring Paradise to everyone, so she said she would help bring you back."

Henry didn't say anything.

"She should get back," Walter repeated.

Henry ran his fingers through Deirdre's hair. "Yeah…"

Deirdre wrapped her arms around his waist. "Are you mad?"

He shook his head. "No, of course not… of course not. You… you should go before Miranda notices… Be a good girl, okay?"

She drew away. "Okay."

Henry sat in the chair for a long while after Deirdre and Walter left.

It was so dark.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Gillian Langdon meticulously arranged the flowers on her dining room table, glancing once at the timer on the stove. Nine minutes until the roast was done. She stepped back from the table and decided that the flowers would have to do. She'd take Christopher to the market the next day and pick up fresh ones. Perhaps lilacs with some goldenrod, or maybe she'd let her son pick again.

She stroked the chrysanthemums in the vase, smiling slightly. They'd never appreciated flowers like she did. Thought she was odd to even compare other flowers to their cherished, plain white blossom, though she had been in awe of it too, at least until she had been reawakened to the outside world.

The dog started barking fervently. Gillian ordered it to quiet down, but it only growled instead, and when there was a knock on the door Gillian stared at it warily. "Calm down, Dakota!" she repeated as she moved to the door, opening it a crack. She screamed before it was forced open and two men in black robes burst in, grabbing hold of her by the arms and pushing her back into the kitchen. Another man came in behind them, and Gillian overcame her shock to glower at him and bare her teeth, much like her dog. Dakota launched itself at the third man's legs. It yelped when it was kicked back, and when it charged again the man snatched it up by the collar, brought out a knife, and slashed its throat. Gillian screamed again and thrashed in her captors' hold.

"Goddamn you, Michael!" she screeched.

He glowered at the dead dog with his cold dark eyes as he dropped it to the kitchen tile. There was a spatter of blood; a few drops landed on his robes and he looked down at them distastefully. He smoothed back his slicked black hair and returning his eyes to Gillian.

She was near tears and screamed again. "Get out of my house!"

He had the knife to her throat in an instant. "Now, now. Keep quiet," he warned in a bored tone. "Believe me, you have more important things to worry about than your mutt." He looked to the man at her right. "Go find the boy."

"_Run, Christopher!_" Gillian shrieked as the man on her left held both her arms and the other disappeared into the hallway. The knife pressed beneath her jaw line and she sobbed. "Leave him alone, Michael!" she begged.

"That's Father Hayes, Sister," the priest reminded her crossly.

"Why are you here?" she whispered.

"For your debt," he replied, putting more pressure on the blade.

"What debt?" she asked, voice wavering.

"Your debt to God, Sister," Hayes said with a smirk.

"I am _not_ a Sister," she hissed, "and I don't owe your God anything."

Hayes tsked as the Brother returned, leading a small, wide-eyed boy by the arm. Christopher gasped when he saw the scene in the kitchen-- his dead dog, his restrained mother, the strange men-- and tried to run to Gillian, but his captor kept a firm grip. "Momma!" the boy yelled.

"It's okay, honey," Gillian said softly, though her voice shook. "Everything's going to be okay."

"That's right," Father Hayes agreed, shooting Christopher a beguiling smile. "We're putting everything right. We're going to help Mommy make recompense for her sins against God."

"Why now?" Gillian asked. "It's been six years… Why wait 'til now?"

"Because I knew you'd be better use to us than as a simple execution," Hayes said, lowering the knife and pulling out a chair. He sat down, set the point of the knife on the table, and spun the handle idly.

She let out a bitter laugh. "And here I thought maybe you had a heart after all."

"Of course I do," he replied with contempt. "And it belongs to God, unlike yours. I trust your filthy, unfaithful heart belongs to your heathen husband now?"

Gillian looked away. "N-no. He passed away years ago--"

Hayes sprung from his seat and thrust the blade at her throat again. "Don't _lie_ to me, Gillian," he snapped. "You've always been terrible at it for one thing, and for another, I'm not stupid. We've been watching your heretic family." His temper dropped a bit. "I had to be sure, of course."

"Sure of what?" she breathed, keeping her chin high, lest the knife bite her throat.

"That you fit the criteria." He tsked again. "Surely you've heard, Sister, about the so-called anomalies in Silent Hill? South Ashfield? So it follows that you must know that God's Arrival is upon us." He shook his head at her terrified expression. "Whatever happened to your pious fervor?" he asked. "Your elated devotion to God?"

"I woke up," she spat.

"You _betrayed God!_" Hayes shouted, quickly drawing back the knife and slicing her beneath the chin. Gillian pressed her lips together and closed her eyes, but Christopher saw the line of blood trickle down her throat and screamed. The man holding the boy gave him a shake, reducing Christopher to quiet tears.

"But God still loves you, I know," Hayes said, voice deceptively soft. "So all you need to do is prove that you are still worthy of Her, of Paradise. But I know you need help, Sister, so I've selected you for a very important purpose."

"What?" she sobbed, opening her eyes again.

"You will help bring God here. Our prophet has showed us the way. Would you like to hear it?"

Gillian shook her head, but Father Hayes pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. He read aloud:

**Anoint the altar with the blood of Sinners.  
****From them, take  
****The Child's Love,  
****The Man's Guile,  
****The Woman's Gift.**

**The altar shall lie for a sun's passing.  
****Within that blessed shrine  
****Imbue the Mother Reborn  
****With the Love, the Guile, and the Gift.**

**Cry for the Holy Mother  
****To bless Her Vessel with Her Light  
****And take it as Her own.**

Gillian tried to speak. "Michael--"

He interrupted. "Woman's Gift. Man's Guile. Child's Love. We will save your whole family, Gillian."

"Nonononononono…" She shook her head rapidly.

"You will not deny God again," Hayes insisted almost gently, slipping the paper back into his robes.

"Take me! Take me!" she pleaded, trying to throw herself from the grip of the Brother holding her. "Just leave Christopher and his father out of this!"

Hayes' face darkened and he grabbed her chin with his rough fingers, pressing into the cut he had made, smearing the blood. She cried out, and he moved his face close to hers. "You have defiled yourself with this heretic man. You have produced a child with him. To save you, we must sacrifice the heretical life you have made for yourself."

"Please, Michael! _Please!_" she begged, tears falling freely.

A car door closed outside, and a male voice called her name from beyond the front door. Father Hayes smiled and readied his knife. The oven timer shrieked.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

"Why didn't you tell me?" Henry asked angrily, getting up from the chair when Walter reentered the apartment. He wanted to get right up in the other man's face, but he moved forward too quickly and almost tripped over his own feet.

"Miranda said it would make you upset," Walter replied, touching Henry's arm.

Henry flung him off. "Well, she was right," he snapped, covering his mouth with his hand. "I feel like I'm going to be sick."

"Sister Elisse gave up her life for God."

"For nothing," he retorted with an odd smile.

"You haven't been listening to Sister Alice at all."

"Oh, I've been listening," Henry snickered. "I remember it. All of it. All drilled into my head, right through my _goddamn eye sockets_." He chuckled, bringing his hands to his face.

"I'm worried."

"Don't change the fucking subject," Henry said, suddenly not laughing anymore.

"There is nothing else to explain."

"You can't explain it!" Henry shouted. "That little girl's mother is dead because of me!"

"We needed you."

Henry's hands shook. He couldn't even talk anymore. _Just add another to the list of Henry Townshend's Great Failures. He even kills people when he's dead._

"Sister Elisse was willing. She wanted to bring Paradise."

"You just dooooon't get it," Henry said with an odd laugh. "And you never will. Which is what makes this so funny, that I keep expecting you to. Keep expecting you to wake the hell up and look around and say, 'Hey, this is pretty screwed up, killing a bunch of people to resurrect a god worshipped by a little group of lunatics in some resort town.' But you are one of those lunatics, so all this hope I keep managing to find? It's hopeless itself. Hopeless and silly and foolish but you know, I guess that's just the way I am. It must be, or else I woulda tried to kill myself a dozen times by now even thought I can't. But I thought about it, you know. Those knives are still there. Easy-- zip!-- right across the wrists or maybe my throat, and hell, maybe if I keep cutting, I'll manage to lose enough blood and fucking die, just like Deirdre's mom. Then I can stay dead and people will stop dying because of me, and all this will end and if there is an afterlife I'll be able to see it, not wander around in fucking darkness never sure what or who's around, or if you're fucking staring at me 'cause I know you are and I wish you would stop."

Henry broke off here in giggles, because it was back, the sight, and he could see Walter's face, the slight crease between his brows, the only sign of emotion on his face. Walter reached out and put his hands on Henry's shoulders when Henry started laughing, but said nothing. The laughter built and built until Henry finally burst out, "Why does this keep happening?"

"What happens?" Walter asked.

Henry felt like he was choking on his own lungs, and he lurched back from Walter.

"Tell me," Walter said, grabbing Henry's shoulders again and gripping them tightly.

Henry gritted his teeth and tried to wrench away, but Walter wouldn't let go, wouldn't stop asking what was wrong, wouldn't stop _staring_ at him with those mindlessly devoted eyes, and Henry lashed out, fingers slashing at the other man's face. "Stop looking at me!" he screamed, thrashing around, trying to get away from Walter one moment, trying to blind him the next.

Finally Walter just grabbed Henry's wrists and twisted, and Henry screamed again, from pain this time, knees buckling, adrenaline draining. When Henry's voice died out Walter let go, only to wrap his arms around the other man and murmur apologies quietly into his ear. "Shh… It's okay, Henry. It's okay." Henry was too scared, too tired to push him away again.

"You can see me," Walter said.

Henry didn't say anything, though the sight had faded once again in the absence of his careening emotions.

"Don't you understand?" Walter continued, sounding happy. "This is more proof from Mother that you are my chosen."

Henry's mind was blank at first, but then it dawned on him. That was all it was, just Her manipulation. The only opportunity for him to see, to receive that sensory comfort, was to see Walter. Walter, who fed him even though he shouldn't need food, who cleaned his face although every other wound healed cleanly. The feelings were supposed to transfer, or maybe convince him of Her plans, or maybe just to convince Walter, he thought miserably as the man held him tighter and pressed his face into Henry's hair. The pendant pressed into Henry's chest, its coldness finally fading away in the heat trapped between him and Walter.

Henry choked back a miserable groan and just tried to pretend he was somewhere else, that someone else was holding him. He wouldn't have minded an embrace from someone he knew and trusted about now. Hell, Walter's hug could've been nice if he wasn't completely psychotic.

And for the first time Henry questioned why he cared. Why bother at all? It was too late, wasn't it? Everything lost. Everything destroyed. He'd already failed. Personal pride, feelings, why cling to them? Exactly how long did he expect this all to last, expect Walter to wait? Wouldn't it be so much better for himself if he just…

"Tomorrow we shall begin to carry out what you have told us," Walter said, voice brimming with pride. "We shall resurrect the Mother Reborn."

_Eileen..._ Henry snapped his head up, gritted his teeth, and shoved Walter away. He wanted to shout something, anything, but there was nothing to say. He turned and reached out to get a grip on something, a chair or a wall, to figure out his orientation in the room. His hand caught on something tall, wooden: one of the low-backed stools by the counter. Henry moved past it and stepped to the hallway, and when he heard Walter move to follow him, Henry stopped. "Leave me the hell alone," he growled. When he continued on down the hall towards the bedroom, to his relief, the other man didn't follow.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Night had fallen. The cold breeze that rolled in from Toluca Lake swirled the gray fog into chilling tendrils. Alice closed the door to the camp's mess hall, reducing the voices inside to murmurs. She adjusted her knitted shawl around her shoulders and peered across the campground, past Sandford Street and to the dock in the distance. A lone light swung gently over it, illuminating a figure at the dock's edge. Alice held her hair down as she walked forward, keeping it back from her face in the wind. When she stepped onto the grass on the other side of Sandford, she could make out the figure's dark feminine shape and flustering gray hair about its head. Once Alice's shoes shuffled across the dock, Miranda turned to see who was intruding on her thoughts. She smiled upon recognizing the teacher and turned back to the lake.

"Tomorrow we shall be one step closer," Miranda said. "One step closer to the end."

Alice only nodded, fixing her eyes in the direction the elder woman stared despite the fog and darkness. Hidden perhaps a mile across the water was the island, the cave, the altar, the sacrifice and resurrection of tomorrow and weeks ago, and who knew what miracles all the years before.

"Something is bothering you, Sister?" Miranda prodded.

"Ivan came to me yesterday," Alice said. "He was troubled about the discovery he made in your office."

Miranda sighed heavily, the breath forced and followed by her hollow assurances. "The boy shouldn't meddle in what he doesn't understand, nor should he drag you into it."

"I've thought a lot about what he told me," Alice continued, "about the Son and Valtiel's influence, about what I can only assume was Father Stone's lack of faith. It disturbs me, Mother."

"Sister," Miranda replied, "you know I value your faith and dedication, but you were not born into our faith. I honestly don't think you have the same capability as other Brothers and Sisters to see Father Stone's intentions and how they don't infringe on his faith in God at all."

"I thought a lot about it," Alice repeated, turning her head to look at Miranda, who already stared back at her with disapproving eyes. "I know, Mother, how mistakes can be made. We are only human. You don't need to lie to me. The Order was fragile. I'm sure Father Stone panicked, had a lapse in judgment."

Miranda didn't respond. She turned her eyes back to the lake, its icy water rising and falling beneath them, splishing around the posts holding up the platform beneath their feet. The wind kicked up and both women pulled their shawls over their heads. Behind them, back in camp, the door to the mess hall opened and the rest of the Order filed out, some escorting the children to their cabins while the others headed to the water or milled around the campground.

"The ends justify the means, Sister," Miranda said, turning fully to Alice. Her face was unreadable, though her tone was nothing but authoritative.

Alice faced her as well, nodding. "I understand, Mother."

"Good. Then keep this to yourself. Others may not be so understanding. This is to be an occasion of glory and joy, not of doubt."

Alice nodded again, and Miranda left her, heels tapping against the dock as she headed back to camp. Alice watched the mist surround the priestess, then looked beyond her to where some Brothers and Sisters had started a small fire in the pit of the stone amphitheater and gathered around it, singing solemn hymns.

"I understand," Alice echoed quietly as she watched Miranda pass the singing group and head towards the administration building in the back of the campground. She added gravely, "But mistakes should be rectified."

* * *

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

I hope there aren't any big mistakes in there, 'cause I won't be able to fix them for a loooooong time. D:

See ya in August! Please leave a review for me to come home to!


	25. In the past 4

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Silent Hill. At all. Biatches.

**Author's Note:** I'm back! (grin) Let's get this coaster started up again! Please keep your arms and legs inside the car while we move through the flashback.

* * *

**In ****the past…** (4)

"I have it! I have it!" Connie shouted breathlessly. Arm extended, key dangling from her fist, she ran down the hall towards Dr. Alvarez. For a moment she thought her white tennis shoes would skid along the linoleum floor and she'd barrel into a fellow nurse, but she recovered and found herself at a sudden stop before the exasperated doctor.

"Don't show it to me!" he snapped, grabbing her hand and shoving it away. "Go do your job!"

Connie tried to look him in the eye as she nervously smoothed down her skirt. "Sir, wouldn't Wanda be the best to--"

"She would, but we have more than one patient in the ICU at the moment and Wanda can't do _everything_, now can she?" Dr. Alvarez snapped.

Connie winced, but straightened her posture and nodded. "Of course, sir, right away."

"She's stable, so it's not like you'll have to do much," the doctor continued snidely. He raked a hand through his slick hair. "I'll be up to reexamine her once I'm done with the reporters and police."

"Yes, doctor. Good luck."

He stalked away without saying anything more. Connie kept her gaze trained to the floor as she moved down the hall to the stairwell. Her face burned with embarrassment. She had managed to lose the key to the room of a high profile patient in intensive care: Eileen Galvin. Galvin had come in unconscious, a victim of a beating, a near murder. If she had gone untreated for much longer, or if the vehemence of the attack had been worse, she'd be in the morgue instead of a private room on the second floor.

It wasn't usual hospital practice to lock patients in their rooms, but Wanda, the Head Nurse, had decided it was best. Not only did the hospital staff have to chase the more brazen journalists out of the ICU because of "Walter Sullivan: Round Three," but Galvin was a victim of an uncaptured madman. Until a police officer was posted outside the room, Wanda wanted to keep her under lock and key.

She had given the key to Connie because while Galvin was stable, there were plenty of other patients that required her attention. The younger nurse, only two weeks on the job, had misplaced the key when she got sidetracked in her busy new workplace.

After she made it upstairs to Room 206, Connie slipped the key into the knob and held her breath as she turned it. It had taken her over an hour to actually find the thing. Though Galvin had been okay when she was left there, the nurse was afraid that something had gone terribly wrong when the patient was under her irresponsible care. She pushed the door open and gingerly slipped inside, gaze settling on the woman under the crisp, pale sheets on the bed. To Connie's relief, Galvin didn't look any worse, and the readings from the machines around her said the same.

Connie relaxed, letting out her breath in a slow stream. "Thank God."

"Is this the 'Sullivan' victim?"

Connie screamed and whirled around, her heart winding down when she saw the blue uniform of a police officer. She looked away from his amused smirk, back to her patient. "Y-yeah. You're gonna watch her?"

"That's what the doc told the vultures outside," he said. He jerked his thumb towards the hallway. "I'll be right outside the door if you need anything, alright?"

She nodded and watched him leave to take up his post before going about her own duties. She picked up the chart sitting in a narrow bin at the foot of the bed to update its notes. She had a hard time keeping her head down, her eyes wandering upwards to pity poor Eileen Galvin, unconscious, fragile. A fractured arm, a bleeding contusion over her right eye, her bandaged calf, purplish bruises up and down her body, and to top it all off, if Connie turned Galvin over she would see the numbers carved across her patient's back.

Connie shivered and moved to the thin curtain drawn to the side of the bed. She grabbed the flimsy green fabric and pulled it along the track in the ceiling, hiding the beaten woman from view. The nurse couldn't have concentrated the slightest otherwise.

Connie hadn't always wanted to be a nurse, and now that she was finally in the field, there were many moments when she questioned how she had gotten here. If she wanted to help people, couldn't she have worked in a soup kitchen or for the Salvation Army or Habitat for Humanity? She often noticed how easily the older nurses and doctors slipped into apathy and found herself dying to be that jaded. When she looked at Galvin, Connie knew when she went home that the brutalized woman would be perpetually in her thoughts, like the rape victim from yesterday or the orphaned boy in that wreck last week.

She didn't want to forget them exactly. She just wished she could see something else when she closed her eyes.

She was interrupted again by a voice, low and gruff, and when Connie looked up she was startled at the man in the doorway. It was the hard, angered look on his face that jarred her. It seemed out of place on someone not much older than herself, someone who also managed to make her feel small though they were both on the short side. But after a moment she saw past that, could see the flicker of uncertainty in his green eyes, the anxious tension in his clenched square jaw. Connie glanced over his shoulder to the cop in the hallway, who mouthed "the brother" to her. She swallowed hard.

He stepped heavily into the room and repeated, "I'm here to see my sister."

Connie could do nothing but nod her head and pull the curtain open partway. She stepped away to fill out her chart while the man made his way to the bedside. He moved with a stilted determination, obviously putting on a show, being the tough guy. She watched as he grasped the bed railing, his blocky body obstructing the patient from view. He stood there gazing at his sister, and the nurse could only be grateful that she couldn't see his face. She felt guilty for wishing her patients out of her thoughts. This poor guy had it so much worse than her, whose parents were alive and well, whose brother was living it up in college, whose dog even waited patiently at home. Connie gritted her teeth and forced herself to complete her notes.

When she looked up again, the brother was still there, but his shoulders were shaking. His tears were silent, but somehow the silence seemed worse than any wail. Connie put the chart on a chair in the corner and quietly moved to his side. She could see Eileen Galvin again, her bandages and bruises, and Connie suppressed a sympathetic noise that tried to slip from her throat. She didn't want to intrude on someone else's pain.

Connie put a hand on the man's shoulder. "Mr. Galvin--"

"_What!_" he growled, whipping his head toward her. His swollen face was red and his eyes were watery, but he glared at her so hatefully that she jerked her hand back for fear that he would break it.

"We're d-doing everything we c-can," Connie said shakily, shocked at his hostility. She clutched her hand to her chest, suddenly feeling ashamed, presumptuous for having touched him. "Did you t-talk to Dr. Alvarez? She's stable now, we… we're sure she'll pull through."

The brother didn't respond for a moment, but he finally stopped glowering at her to close his eyes and take in a deep breath. He shook his head, opened his eyes, and sneered. "Just tell me where the bathroom is," he said, putting a hand over his eyes.

Connie nodded, but couldn't bring herself to look at him. "Of course. Yeah. Down the hall, through the doors to the right."

He left quickly, at once behaving like she didn't exist, and Connie felt immense relief at seeing him gone, even briefly. She glanced at Eileen Galvin once more and sighed as she pulled the curtain shut.

"You'll get used to it."

She turned. The cop stood in the doorway, arms folded. She wanted to say something, but only felt awkward.

"Used to shit like this, I mean," he continued, nodding toward the masked bed. "Faster than you want to probably. I've only been on the force five years. I still get sick sometimes, sure, but never surprised. You come to expect it."

"That's really… really sad," Connie finally said, though she didn't know why. Of course it was sad. Of course she knew it was going to happen. She was waiting for it to happen. Anything to make it easier.

"Yeah," he replied. There was a pause, and for a second Connie thought he might go on, make some light conversation, work his way up to asking her out. But he disappeared from the doorway and here thoughts were anchored down to the patient again.

Suddenly she felt so terrible that she wanted to cry. Connie pressed her hands over her face and willed the tears away, forced the sobs back into her chest. Crying was not for the job. Crying was for home, where she could sit along on the couch with her arms wrapped around a pillow while her beagle stared at her dumbly.

The surge of feeling passed and she felt merely unsettled once again. Connie lowered her hands and blinked at the room around her. The green curtain reminded her of the brother. She wondered if he'd be back soon and felt sick at the thought.

Connie peeked out into the hall. Mr. Galvin was there with Dr. Alvarez. The brother looked calmer to her relief. The doctor stood with him, looking just as composed as Connie had ever seen him, the practiced concern on his face something she had accepted rather quickly and aspired to master.

"I expect to move her out of ICU in a day, perhaps two," he was saying. "She should wake up any time now…" And then they were walking down the hall together. Connie hoped the doctor was taking the brother down to the cafeteria for some coffee. She couldn't imagine being in the same room with someone so volatile again.

She flashed a weak smile at the officer by the door before ducking back in. There wasn't much else she could do, so she figured she'd better check in with Wanda. Connie examined all the machines one more time and was heading to the door when she spotted the chart on the chair in the corner of the room. Just another reason for Dr. Alvarez to get on her case again. She trotted over and picked it up so she could put it back in its bin.

A horrendous, grating scream erupted behind her, and she spun around, the clipboard flung from her hands. She saw a shadow of movement behind the sage curtain, a motion of panic and pain, and then sickening noises, wet tearing, sharp snapping, and sprays of red slashed across the curtain. Connie recoiled, her back colliding with the wall. Something flew from the bed, fluffing up the bottom of the curtain before hitting the floor and sliding to the doorway, where the officer stood. He shouted something, but Connie could barely hear him with her patient's shriek ringing in her ears.

The officer flung the curtain aside and it slid open halfway, _click-click-click_ on its track, and Connie could see the stump of tattered flesh on the arm, the missing half of her face where her bandaged eye had been, the gaping mouth ruined on one side and plump and smooth on the other. And the blood, oh God, the blood slipping into the sheets, down the curtain to the floor, thick and red, and Connie felt her blood fall too, slide right out of her body, felt nothing but an echo of a scream, light as a ghost. But she fell like a stone, her knees unlocking and legs folding and sprawling her onto the floor.

Down there she could see the beneath the curtain, see the _drip-drip-drip_ on both sides of the bed, puddling on the floor, spreading out, a trail of it sliding toward her, following some unseen divot in the floor. She didn't want it anywhere near her but she didn't have muscles anymore, she didn't have a voice to call for help. But Wanda had a voice, yelled for something, someone, and yanked the curtain open all the way around and she could see a leg, bent over the side of the bed but not at the knee, a white splint exposed from flesh overflowing with redness. And even as Connie's head hit the floor and her eyes closed, she never stopped seeing it, a woman torn asunder like a despised rag doll.

* * *

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Next chapter is mostly done. Hopefully there won't be another near-two-month wait.


	26. Chapter TwentyOne

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Silent Hill in all its incarnations, nor do I own the characters, locations, and other relevent elements therein.

**Author's Note: **Thanks once again to **Literary Alchemist**, and also to **Marumae**, who gave me a bit of assistance when he was not available. And, of course, a big thanks to all my readers for their thoughts and encouragement.

* * *

**CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE  
Reanimation**

When Miranda told Walter that they were ready to board the boats, he went downstairs to get Henry. He expected he'd have some trouble getting him out of the apartment, but when Walter entered the room he found Henry sitting on the chest by the television. Henry had the light blue cloak around his shoulders and was trying to tie it around his neck. Walter walked over and knelt in front of the other man, nudging Henry's hands out of the way and tying it himself. Henry's hands shook as he lowered them to his lap, where they wrung together.

Walter wanted to ask if Henry was okay, but he had barely said one word and Henry emphatically shook his head. He didn't want to talk, or listen, or think. He obediently let Walter lead him up the stairs and out the door, the same one they had gone through when Walter had taken him outside in secret.

The fresh air was a change from the stilted atmosphere of the apartment, but Henry couldn't shake off the heavy foreboding weight on his shoulders. He wished he could enjoy being outside; after all, it was only the second time he'd set foot outside the building. But the change in atmosphere only made him queasier. It brought him closer to the inevitable.

Walter led him in a different direction than he had the first time they left the building together, towards the sound of chattering voices. Those voices hushed as he and Walter approached, however, and Henry could only suppose it was because of them.

A little girl's voice broke the silence. "But we wanna go!" she whined.

"Silence, Elizabeth," a woman said. "You'll stay here with Sister Alice like good children and prepare for the others."

"Yes, come along now." Henry recognized Alice's voice. "They'll be back soon enough," she said amiably.

"Yes indeed," came Miranda's calm voice. "To the boats now. Ivan, do you have her?"

"Yes, Mother," said a young male over the sound of feet moving past them through the grass.

"Good. Walter, are you and the Receiver ready?"

"Yes, Mother," Walter said, adjusting his grip on Henry's arm. Henry said nothing.

"Well then, come along."

Briefly, Henry entertained the idea of breaking away and running, but he knew he wouldn't get far. He moved beside Walter at a steady pace, noting when they passed from soft grass to hard concrete and back to grass again. Their feet clomped on wood after a moment; from what Miranda had said before, Henry assumed they were on a dock.

Walter stopped him and said, "I'll get in first."

Henry could hear the water splishing around beneath them, the thud of Walter's shoes as he got into the rowboat. Miranda spoke to someone quietly, her voice close behind him. He scorned her in his mind.

"Henry."

He tentatively stepped forward, leaning down and holding out his arms. Walter put his hands on Henry's forearms to guide him, and Henry reluctantly found Walter's shoulders. Henry expected to somehow hop down, but then Walter's hands were firmly on his waist, and he was lifted lightly down into the boat. His feet touched the wood bottom, but Walter didn't let go.

"Okay?" Walter said. One of his hands shifted slightly, his fingers pressing into Henry's hip.

With an aggravated grunt, Henry quickly pulled away. He carefully sat down in what he figured to be the back of the boat, since the edges he used to steady himself did not curve to a point.

The boat swayed as Walter sat, and after a moment Henry could hear the oars revolving, splashing down and pushing the boat along the water. Walter didn't speak as he rowed, and that was fine with Henry. He kept getting a sickening feeling from the direction they headed. He tried to concentrate on the lulling rhythm of the boat.

Something tugged in his head and he turned to the water, leaning a bit over the side of the boat. His head panged. He lowered a hand to the water, let his fingers skim the icy surface. The chill of the lake reminded him of cracks in ice, thin lines striking through foggy white, through his mind, forming a well-kept riverboat, its towering paddle propelling it from shore, a sparse number of passengers milling about the deck. They buttoned their jackets and tightened their shawls as the fog curled around them. One little boy ran to the rail and peered at the water, his body casting a pale shadow over the name painted on the side of the boat: _Little Baroness_. The boy strained forward, something beneath the choppy waves commanding his attention, and then he recoiled, pushing back from the railing and shrieking as it came up from the water.

Henry jerked away from it, but at once he couldn't recall what it was. The image was gone, a ghost sinking into the waters beneath.

The boat jolted and, coming from his strange thoughts, Henry realized they had stopped. They were docked. He heard Walter get out of the boat. Henry stood up, reached an arm out. Walter grabbed it and his other arm and pulled him up. Then Walter led him onto land.

As Henry's sandals touched the grass, he stopped, swayed. He held his stomach at a sudden sickness. Other people were also ashore; he heard murmurs and gasps of concern.

"Henry?" Walter's hand moved to his back.

Henry's hands flew from his stomach to his burning head, at the horrible and strange images that flowed unbidden from the ground beneath, through his feet and slipping up his bones to his skull.

A person, a corpse, purple skin wet and bulbous and sloshing around the bones, with shaking hands that clawed at the gray grass, trying to get onto land. Waterlogged lungs vomited lake water as fearful bloodshot eyes in deep lilac sockets finally saw relief in the land. A gurgled cry as the body was violently dragged back into the black lake.

A young Native American girl dressed elaborately in furs, beads, and feathers, beside an older man similarly garbed. They chanted at an altar in the middle of a cave, their tribe gathered around them. The girl set a fox, limp and unconscious, on the altar and the man drove a knife through it. All bowed their heads, the sacrifice done. Then only horrified screams as something appeared from the darkness and snatched the girl, one malformed arm around her waist as the other hand crudely latched onto her breast, claws piercing the tender flesh there, soaking her thick fur dress with rich young blood.

A man, modern, in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, ran breathlessly through the night, struggling through the trees, crying out each time he stumbled, the sound of his feet scrabbling against the dirt and grass and through the brush not enough to mask the hungered panting of what pursued him. It was dark in the woods, but when the man emerged upon the moonlit shore there was nothing of comfort, only a terrified sob because he could not run any further, because the mainland was so far. He hesitated only a moment before pushing his sneakers through the thick, fine sand,choking on it when the agile creature dropped from the trees and leaped upon him.

Henry gritted his teeth, trying to concentrate and banish those thoughts and more from his mind. He tried to think of something else, something cheerful from his past, but there were only the disturbing visions and the pain they brought him, with Walter's voice in the background. So he focused on that, on Walter's harried words, on Walter's one hand pressed against his back and the other closed around his forearm. The sights in his mind slowly fell away to the darker recesses of his consciousness. He could still feel them there, an eerie tremor at the back of his mind.

"Where are we?" Henry finally said, voice a strained moan.

A young male voice-- Ivan-- answered. "The island."

"This is where you were resurrected," Walter added, sounding relieved.

"Is there a problem?" Miranda said, making clear her irritation.

Her voice startled him, but Henry resumed his silence, though he knew his distaste showed on his face.

Miranda said nothing more and Walter pulled him along again. Henry noticed the other man was going a bit slower, a considerate gesture, but it did nothing to settle Henry's nerves. Nothing could, given what was coming, why they were there. And then they were walking along a hard surface, stone, and their steps echoed. Henry at once saw in his mind's eye the girl from his vision and his first flash of real memory from his second life, looking up into that light with Miranda's voice reverberating in his ears.

Walter pulled him aside and kept a hand on his arm. Miranda fired out orders for the body to be placed on the altar, for everyone to take their places, for Ivan to be ready with the chrism, the goblet, the knife, and then one final thing.

"Brother, are you ready?"

"Always for my duty to God," replied a man, voice deep and reverent.

In his nervousness about Eileen's return, Henry had forgotten about the sacrifice. He tried to speak, but the grip on his arm tightened.

"We do what we must for God," Walter said.

Henry kept silent, though something inside him wept for this poor man and how Henry could do nothing but let him go. Wept for how, really, he could hardly care if he could hear Eileen's voice again.

As Miranda started to chant, Henry's fear consumed his anxiety, and he wanted nothing more than to jam his hands against his ears and block it out. That small, wounded part of him that still managed to cry for rebellion emerged once again, and he could not control his urge to stop the ceremony. He threw himself forward with violent, vague intentions, but Walter's arms were instantly around him, holding him back from the sound of Miranda's voice, rising up in echoes. Henry screamed in protest, but one of Walter's heavy hands clapped over his mouth. Henry sunk his teeth into Walter's palm, but the taller man did not react, and Henry was left with the strong metallic taste of blood and dirt seeping into his mouth. He felt as if he would choke, his anger crumbling under his fear once again as his throat constricted. The thought of Walter's life essence further polluting him, melding with his body, whirled him into panic until he was screaming so loudly into Walter's hand that the sound rang shrilly in his ears, not muffled at all, until he realized it wasn't his own choked voice shrieking throughout the stone chamber, thrumming against the walls and overtaking any other noise that might have been there. Henry stopped struggling, stood frozen in Walter's hold, feet stuck fast to the ground. He felt as if the agony in the voice was so white hot that it melted his sandals to the stone.

Her horrendous cries never ended. Henry pictured her in nothing but a pool of glittering blood, the way she had left and the way she returned, filling him with guilt so terrible that he didn't even know how he had broken away from Walter. Nor could he be sure how he fended off all the invisible hands that tried to hold him back. He just focused on her voice, pushing himself through the dark until he collided with something solid and cold. He collapsed on top of it, on top of a flailing form, sickly warm and wet and screeching in his ear, the wail of the siren escalating until it finally ended with a breathless "Henry!"

And then nothing. Thick silence until he heard those surrounding them rush up, their voices a boiling cacophony.

"Quickly, the blanket, the blanket!"

"It's done!"

"Take him! Hurry!"

But Henry's arms flung around the limp, slick form that had begged his name and refused to let go.

A pair of hands on his shoulders, a body close to his. Walter's voice boomed in his ear. "Henry, we must keep her warm."

Henry lowered his head, pressing his face into her body.

"She can go across in your boat," Miranda said evenly, just a trickle of exasperation in her voice.

"I will carry her," Walter said, hands wrapping around Henry's forearms and slowly pulling.

Walter's words were an assurance to Henry next to Miranda's; Walter would not lie to him. Henry felt himself shake as Eileen's body slid away beneath him and a pair of hands slipped under his arms and pulled him upright. Henry was guided by the arm away from where he had fallen. He knew it was not Walter leading him. The hands were small, cautious. The stranger made him nervous and Henry stopped, refusing to go on when the person tugged lightly.

"I have her," Walter said.

"Take him to the boat, Ivan," Miranda said, voice clipped with impatience.

Ivan murmured nervously to Henry under his breath, an unintelligible request, and pulled again. Henry hesitated, but walked along with him while listening intently for Walter's heavy steps behind him. He was so concerned with making sure Eileen was close by that he couldn't be sure how long it was before they arrived back at the dock, when Ivan stopped him and helped him into a rowboat.

Henry sat at the back of the boat as he had done before. A moment passed and no one had joined him, and Henry gripped the plank beneath him tightly. Frantic thoughts in his head rambled that they had lied, they were taking her on another boat, taking her from him again, but then a heavy weight set down, rocking the vessel from side to side.

"Hold out your arms," Walter said.

Henry swallowed hard, stomach lurching as the boat settled, and extended his arms. Bundled in thick fabric, she was lowered into his lap. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, exhaling shakily when he felt the slight rise and fall of her heavy chest against his.

The boat moved again as Walter settled in the back, and it was not long before Henry heard the grind of the oars in their metal hoops and the splash as they fell into the water. The cold air brushed against Henry's face and he held Eileen tighter against him. He felt her faint breath against his cheek and raised a hand to her face. Her skin was warm and sticky, and he pulled up the hem of his cloak to wipe the blood away from her face.

"She will be bathed," Walter said.

Henry continued to blindly smear the blood, recalling her face in his mind as he did so. Her pale freckled skin, the curve of her cheeks, the sleek bridge of her nose, her soft slender lips. And her bright, hopeful green eyes.

Eventually the boat stopped again. Henry waited, and sure enough her voice came from above, on the dock.

"She comes with us now, Henry," Miranda said.

He would not let her go again. Before Henry even heard the wood creak as Walter leaned forward, he latched his arms around Eileen and buried his face into the blanket that cocooned her. He resisted Walter's hands tugging at his arms, willing them to be like an unbreakable steel vise. His voice keened low, crying out as his muscles failed and his joints betrayed him, allowing Eileen to be pulled away. He lunged forward with a furious scream, but Walter caught him and held him back, his strength secure and unfailing.

Henry went on screaming, demanding that she be returned to him, but there was no response. His voice cracked and died, but he still craned forward in Walter's arms, still tried to break them.

"We will take good care of the Mother Reborn," Miranda's voice said above them.

Henry swallowed hard and gritted his teeth, fingers digging into Walter's arm.

"I assure you, you'll see her again," Miranda said. A brief pause before a low chuckle. "So to speak."

He tried to keep control, forcing his lungs to fill and empty at an even pace, steadying his body as Walter stood and pulled him to his feet. The sound of the other man climbing onto the dock echoed in his ears, and Henry moved stiffly when Walter reached down and pulled him out of the boat.

"Return him to the temple," Miranda said, voice now on the same level, close by, and as soon as Walter let go of Henry's waist, Henry lunged towards her voice, snatching up a fistful of cloth and shoving. She cried out and there was a clattering on the dock, the sound of feet stumbling, before a great splash. He was about to leap into the water and grab her hair, hold her head under until her chest filled with water, but Walter grabbed his arm and yanked him back. Then he heard Miranda's angry voice again, still on the dock.

"Take him now!" she snapped, and then Henry was pulled away, stumbling across the planks from Walter's quickness.

Miranda looked down and watched two Sisters pull Ivan from the steely water onto the dock. The young man knelt at her feet, the wood darkening around him as water dripped from his robe. Miranda bent down and put a hand against his forehead, tipping his bowed head back. She scoffed at his bewildered expression. "Go change and tell Sister Alice to bring me the children."

"Yes, Mother," Ivan said, but she was already looking away, out to the water as the other boats slid in to the neighboring docks. After a few moments, when she was satisfied that all the boats were nearing shore, she turned to check on the Mother Reborn. One Brother carried the Mother carefully in his arms, another Brother and a Sister on either side of him. They were taking her to the woods, to bathe her in a pool as their scriptures called for. Miranda was about to turn back to the lake when she noticed that they had stopped.

They backed slowly away, the Sister grabbing onto the center Brother's robe, the second Brother edging in front of the Mother Reborn. And then Miranda saw them, dark shapes slinking from the cover of the fog, prowling about the ground. At first she saw only a few, then perhaps a dozen, but after a few moments she was sure there were more than thirty. The Brothers and Sisters stopped moving backwards when half a dozen of the creatures scurried around them, enclosing them in a circle. The cats mewed eagerly, drawing closer.

"Do not fear them!" Miranda said with a deep laugh as she approached the wary three. "She has only sent them to behold Her Vessel."

"O-Of course, Mother," said the Sister with a nod. Her hands were still clenched in the middle Brother's robe, and she pulled on it, urging him forward. "Let's go."

The two men followed her lead, continuing on to the forest. The cats stepped out of their way when the humans neared them, craning their necks upwards to the Mother Reborn and yowling. Miranda kept close behind, only smiling when the Holy Mother's servants closed in behind them.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Dressed in plain slacks and a long-sleeved shirt, Ivan left the sopping robe hanging on a line strung between two trees outside the cabin he shared with the other Brothers. He looked up at the sky despite the fog, then sighed and set off to find Sister Alice.

The activities buildings were all empty, and he saw no sign of her or the children by the shore. He knew they would not be in the administration building so close to the Receiver and, soon, the Mother Reborn. They were not in the children's cabin. Ivan was beginning to worry just as he heard a smatter of laughter from the forest behind the camp. He tromped through the trees and brush, and it was less than a minute before he found them in a round clearing. All of the children stood poised in a ragged circle except for the blind-folded boy in the middle. He wandered around the center, occasionally lurching forward in an attempt to grab one of his friends. At this the other children scattered, failing at being as quiet as possible so he wouldn't have help finding them. Alice reclined against a tree and watched them with a serene smile.

Ivan walked to her side and said, "Miranda wants to speak with the children."

Alice glanced up at him and nodded. "Very well, but just a bit longer."

"Alright." Ivan turned to go, but Alice stopped him.

"Why don't you sit with me awhile?" she said quietly.

"I should probably get back to Mother."

"I need to talk to you," she said, smile fading. "About Father Stone's journal." She spoke lowly, but the children were too involved in their game to listen to them.

Ivan sat down cross-legged at her side. He rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands, staring at her eagerly. "Yes?"

"Ivan…" Alice looked away from him, her gaze sweeping across the ground before coming back. "I don't have any answers for you." She continued despite his downstruck expression. "There isn't an answer that you would like, anyhow."

He folded his arms as if he felt a sudden chill, as if he was still in his wet robe. "But… But I don't understand. He's the _Son_. Surely if Father Stone had given God more time…"

Alice nodded. "Even the best of us have lapses in faith."

Ivan looked upset. "I… I guess this doesn't really… doesn't _really_ change anything."

At this the Sister glanced at the children, to make sure they were still caught up in their fun, and said cautiously, clearly gauging his reaction, "But it's wrong, yes?"

He didn't answer. He wouldn't say that a priest or priestess was wrong, even if he knew it. Uncomfortable, Ivan looked away from her.

"Ivan, not saying it won't fix it."

Something about her tone made him look up, stare at her warily. "Fix it?"

She hesitated at his expression. "The invocation of Valtiel can… It can be reversed."

His jaw dropped at her words. He started scrambling to his feet, intent on heading back to Miranda, but Alice grabbed his arm and pulled him down again. She looked at the children to be sure they were still oblivious. "Listen to me, Ivan," she whispered. "The coming of Paradise cannot be tainted like this. The Son should have no loyalty to God but his own when his Mother comes to greet us and lead the way. Don't you think so?"

Ivan shook her arm off. His face was bright red. "Sister, do you realize what you're talking about?" he hissed. "I can't go against Mother Miranda like that!" For a moment it looked as if he would cry. "Can you imagine what she'd _do_ if she found out that we-- y-you were planning such heresy?"

"Is it not heresy to determine that faith is not enough?" Alice retorted. "How is setting things right any worse than Father Stone's conclusion? Will you let this go on just because Mother Miranda is too afraid to do the right thing?"

The young man was shaking. "Sister Alice… _I'm_ afraid."

Alice took a deep breath and smiled. "Of course you are. You think I am not? But we have to push through that and do what is right, don't we?"

Ivan folded his arms again, tried to calm down. He wanted to be back with Mother Miranda, to have her assure him with her wise words. But ever since he'd found the journal, he was forced to admit, her reasoning had less power with him. It pained him, but he was starting to doubt her.

Suddenly the children surged forward, finally noticing Ivan's arrival. Looking excited, they gathered tightly around the Brother and Sister.

"Is she here?" Elizabeth asked, the other boys' and girls' eager faces reflecting the question. "The Mother Reborn is with us?"

Ivan did his best to smile and nodded. "That's right. And Mother Miranda, sh-she wants to talk to you."

"Will we get to see her?" Deirdre asked, still concerned with the resurrected woman.

"I think you've already seen enough of the Receiver, don't you?" Sister Alice replied with a chuckle. She stood, as did Ivan, and said, "Come along now. Back to camp."

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Heather skimmed the emails as Jeremy printed them out. There were a dozen or so from the past six months.

_... and we got a weird report today. Tourist was taking a walk through the woods and stopped by a pond. Swears to God that the water was bright red, thought there'd been a murder and got the police. But when she brought them there, the water was clear as anything. No murders were ever reported in that particular area, but what's reported and what happens can easily be two different things, right?..._

…_Oh, and this one's a gem. Total fucking _loon_ came to us today and started quoting _Alice in Wonderland_ at us, rambling, saying weird shit like he followed the rabbit down the hole, but the hole was gone now. I remember that part clearly, 'cause he grabbed Earl's shirt and started screaming, "It's gone now! It's gone now!" Over and over. Scared the hell out of me. We called the cops, of course. Guy's probably being prepped for Brookhaven as I type…_

…_been a promising day. Earl and I were looking through the book exchange in town and found some real gems, old books about the history of Silent Hill and whatnot. I think the owner might've gotten them from the old Baldwin mansion when the inheritors had that auction. I even scrounged up a little hardback titled "The Old Gods: Silent Hill's Order." What luck, yeah? I can't wait to read it, but we've been busy lately…_

That last bit, from three months ago, seemed promising. If only she knew more. Jeremy couldn't help her with it. His mom's friend-- "Sandra," the emails said-- had never mentioned anything about the book to him.

The front door to his house opened and Jeremy hastily clicked 'print' on the last message and closed the window, opening another with some benign encyclopedia site. When his mother walked in, Heather flipped up the papers in her hand to hide the Mail Monkey logo.

"What's going on, kids?" Jeremy's mother said when she walked in, looking harried.

"Not much, Mom," Jeremy replied with the most forced smile Heather had ever seen. "Just doing some research for school."

His mother nodded distractedly, though she made a point to smile at her son's friend. "How are you, dear?"

"Just fine," Heather replied, standing furtively in front of the printer as it chugged out the last email.

The older woman nodded. "Excited about graduation?"

"Oh, yeah," Heather said, moving her weight from one foot to the other, trying to think of something easy-going to say.

Jeremy's mother, however, just nodded and moved into the next room, the kitchen. Heather watched her take the phone off the wall and dial as she shuffled through papers on the counter.

Heather turned around and took the last mail from the printer. "That's it?" she asked Jeremy. He nodded, and she squeezed his shoulder. "Thanks. You're a real pal."

" 'A real pal'?" he repeated with a chuckle, though he looked a bit disappointed at the same time, swiveling back to the computer screen.

"Yes," Heather replied, before stooping to kiss him on the cheek. He turned his head and grinned up at her.

Suddenly the volume of his mother's voice escalated. "I have her address right here!" she exclaimed. "Couldn't they just send someone to check? Something has happened to her, I know it!"

Heather's eyes fell on the paper half-crumpled in the woman's hand.

Jeremy's mother suddenly slammed the receiver back onto its holder and slapped the paper onto the counter. She stood there for a moment, hunched over, breathing hard, before bringing her hands to her face. She turned around and sobbed, "Jeremy, I just don't know what to do anymore!"

Jeremy went to the kitchen and Heather followed him. He reached out and rubbed his mother's arm. "I'm sure they're doing what they can, Mom. I mean, it's a weird situation over there."

She lowered her hands and wandered to the entryway. "I want to keep believing she's okay, but I just…" She shook her head.

"It'll be okay, Mom," Jeremy said, embracing her.

Heather quietly stepped to the counter. She glanced down at the small sheet of wrinkled paper with the address. She watched the son and mother as she surreptitiously took the note and slipped it amongst the emails in her hand. They noticed nothing. She excused herself, flashing a quick apologetic smile at Jeremy as she left.

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**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Please review.


	27. Chapter TwentyTwo

**Disclaimer:** Konami makes money off this franchise. I don't. Pity me. ;;

**Author's Note** Sorry for the long wait! School is a pain with all that there learnin' an' stuff. Don't have anything else to say, so read on.

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**CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO  
****Emancipation**

When they had first come to Camp Nebi, the children had been excited about exploring their new home, and more than once Alice had to rescue one of them from the woods. After a couple of weeks, she had no problem getting around the western forest, though she preferred to stay at camp. Intruders still managed to sneak inside the Holy Ground, after all.

On one of her first times wandering the woods, she had made a discovery. Near the camp was a small rundown building, a single space with gray concrete walls and a dark wooden roof. It had no windows and one empty doorway, the door leaning against a nearby tree. She walked in and found it hollow, dim. The only light came from the doorway and a gap where the wall had crumbled in the right hand corner of the room, that section of roof above also broken, rotting. Perhaps the camp had once used it for storage.

Whatever its original purpose, Alice had no doubt her own use for it would be very different. Two days after the resurrection of the Mother Reborn, early in the morning, she snuck out to the shed with a small bundle. She worked quickly by the light of an electric lantern, drawing on the floor and walls with white and red chalk. She got back to camp with just enough time to throw the sheet-covered book under her bed before hurrying to the children's lesson. She had left the chalk, as well as several candles, in the shed. Ivan would bring the other supplies later.

The children had finished sewing the designs on their dresses and robes for the Realization, so Alice had them write letters to the Mother Reborn. They were so interested in her, and Alice so distracted, that she did not think she could have taught them a proper lesson. She spent the hour thinking about the Son, the Mother Reborn, and the Receiver of Wisdom.

She hadn't had a lesson with Henry since before the Twentieth Sacrament had been returned to life. She wanted to, but Miranda had told her she had done enough. Alice didn't think so. She had seen Henry on the island. He still didn't understand. He never had, and it was tearing him apart.

The Mother Reborn was being kept in one of the empty cabins, constantly guarded. Alice had visited her once, but the woman was distrustful, unresponsive. She had stayed curled up in one corner of a bottom bunk, staring at the teacher with wide green eyes from beneath her veil of dark hair. Alice heard, though, that sometimes the Mother would ask for Henry, and twice she had tried to escape.

And then there was the Son. He had attempted to visit with the Mother Reborn, Ivan told Alice, but it had not gone well. The woman had screamed, tried to claw her way through the walls, ripped off three of her nails before two Brothers restrained her. Afterwards, Miranda told Walter to keep away from the Mother Reborn's cabin, and he obeyed, keeping to Henry as usual.

But none of that concerned Alice. She was far more worried about the coming afternoon, when she and Ivan would disappear from lunch and tell the Son there was important work to be done in a little shed not far into the woods.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

"Are you ready, Walter?"

"This is what Mother wants?"

Alice nodded. "Yes. Yes, God wants you to love Her unconditionally."

Walter frowned. "I do."

She nodded again. "I know you do, that's why you're doing this, yes?"

"Why is Mother Miranda not here?" Walter asked, looking to Ivan. The young man stood behind Alice, his head down, eyes closed. He gripped the old book to his chest, fingers white against the worn brown cover.

"She's busy." Alice gestured to Walter. "Please kneel there in the circle."

He stood in the doorway for a moment, and strangely enough Alice could swear she saw a flicker in his eyes, not exactly of fear, but of mistrust. And why not? He'd been tricked into this situation before, had he not? She smiled gently, praying he would believe her despite her guilt over lying about Mother Miranda. Everything else was true, though. That bolstered her conviction. God commanded unconditional love. This was the right thing to do.

Alice hesitated, adding, "Surely you trust God?"

This seemed to strike Walter, and his eyes fell from her to the white chalk circle on the concrete under their feet. He walked forward into the circle, outlined with runic symbols of the same color. He turned to her before settling on his knees. Two red Halos of the Sun were drawn on the walls on either side of him.

Sister Alice smiled. Ivan gave her the book. She took a deep breath and began to read:

**Your Wisdom,  
****Your Love,  
****These are what guide us  
****In faith and service.  
****You, who makes us whole.**

**Your angel, Divine Servant,  
****Has directed his will among us.  
****We the unworthy, the meek,  
****Who fall to our knees in servitude,  
****Relieve Your Attendant,  
****Patient Valtiel,  
****From his duty.**

Ivan crept nervously from corner to corner, lighting the single white candle posted at each. He shook out the match and awkwardly slipped it into his pocket. He did his best to stay calm, keep his heartbeat and breathing even, but he found blinking impossible as he watched Alice.

**And thus the Vessel shall be relieved  
****By hands of purity,  
****Cleansed in sacred oil.**

Alice knelt in front of Walter, her knees resting just outside the circle. She placed the book at her side and took a small bottle from her pocket. Opening it, she poured a dot of oil into her palm before setting it down. She rubbed her hands together.

There was a mew at the door, and Ivan's stare was torn from the two on the floor to the shed's entrance. A cat crept in, and three others followed up behind it. He didn't know what to think, but Alice looked up at him and quickly ordered, "Ivan, keep them out."

Ivan hesitated, but he went to the doorway and waved his hands at the cats, ushering them away. They rushed off, but came back around in an arc. He kicked at them, but still they slunk forward. He saw the door leaning on the tree and grabbed it, bringing it back and propping it up in the open doorway. Grasping the doorknob tightly, he held it firmly in place. Alice's soft voice continued.

**And these hands shall release Your Angel's essence  
****By releasing Life's essence.  
****We bleed for duty, though blood is never enough.**

There was a chunk missing from the corner of the door. One of the cats tried to squeeze in, but Ivan blocked it with his foot. He glanced over at Alice. She held Walter's hand in hers, and she drew a copper blade across his palm.

**Depart, Valtiel!  
****We shall complete your service  
****With our own hands,  
****Our own love.  
****Depart!**

The darkness pulled tighter around the glow of the candles. The cats clawed at the door, one focused on forcing itself through the hole. Ivan kicked at it, and it gnawed at his shoe, scraped the leather with its claws. Walter screamed, and Ivan turned to see the Son bent over, fingers digging into the concrete below. His agonized voice spread out from the floor, crawling up the walls to the ceiling, and then it lowered. It pressed the darkness down and down onto the four pinpoints of light. Ivan could barely see Walter any more. He could only hear him, the scream lancing his eardrums. He slammed his hands over his ears, elbow knocking the door. It fell over and a cat yowled. The candles went out.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

The first thing Miranda noticed was that a book was missing from her shelf. This did not alarm her at first; she was merely curious at which text she had misplaced, or perhaps Ivan was getting too curious for his own good again. But when she was directly in front of the shelf and realized precisely which book was gone, she suddenly felt cold. She whirled around to her desk, which held only papers. "No." She yanked open each drawer, one clattering to the floor, its contents spilling out. Miranda stopped, breathing hard, the implications of that particular book's absence spinning a terrible scenario in her thoughts. But no, it could only be true if…

She grabbed the landscape painting behind her desk and tossed it to the ground, revealing a safe in the wall. Trying to keep her hands steady, she twisted the knob to the first number, second number, third number, and flung the metal door open. Several items sat inside, including the black goblet. But to her horror, one of the vials of chrism was gone, as were a few candles, a bottle of oil, and one of the three ceremonial blades.

No. No. No, Ivan would never do something like this. This wasn't possible. Unless someone had convinced him…

And suddenly she knew.

"Alice."

Miranda hurried outside, but did not know where to go. She turned left and right helplessly, the fog only inflaming her panic. She forced herself to be still, to calm down and think. They were probably not in the camp. Alice wasn't foolish. They'd be away, somewhere they wouldn't be interrupted.

Something tugged at her skirt, and she looked down. Three cats stood at her feet, and once they had her attention they mewed and swiftly headed to the woods. Miranda hitched up her skirt and ran after them, pushing herself past her age. Her hammering heart beat the air from her lungs, but she couldn't stop, couldn't rest as she chased the cats through the trees.

She saw it in the distance, a stout, squarish form in the fog. She nearly fell, foot catching on a root, but remained upright and running, gasping for air, and then she heard a scream. Walter.

Closer and closer to the edifice. The cats were already there, peering up at someone in the doorway. Ivan. He looked down at a fourth cat lying motionless under the fallen door, then looked up at her, his face white, eyes wide. Miranda stumbled to the doorway and shoved him aside.

Alice lowered her arms and Walter collapsed to the floor, hands pulling at his long hair, his cries fading. It was too late. Miranda stared shocked at the scene. Wisps of smoke spiraled up from the candles. She heard movement behind her and turned. Ivan stared at her owl-eyed. Miranda wanted to scream at him, beat him for his absolute idiocy, but found herself paralyzed. She just could not think of the words, couldn't find the will to grab him by his neck. Under her murderous gaze he broke and fell to his knees, babbling for her forgiveness.

Alice turned slowly around, doing her best to look Miranda in the eye but failing. And it was looking at Alice-- that stupid, traitorous woman-- that finally compelled the priestess to act. Miranda stepped forward and snatched up the other woman's collar, twisting the material so it cut into the teacher's neck, wringing out a pained and frightened cry.

"What have you done?" Miranda hissed.

"Only what is right," Alice said weakly, barely able to meet her superior's eyes.

Miranda wanted to throttle her, but the run had made her weak. She let Alice go and her livid stare shot to the man on the floor. She suppressed her anger the best she could and knelt down in front of him. Gingerly, Miranda reached out, setting a hand on his shoulder. "Walter," she said cautiously. "Walter?"

He made no sound, only slowly pressed his palms to the ground and pushed himself up. His head remained bowed, blond hair veiling his face, but when the priestess said his name again he turned his gaze upwards, staring at her with an expression she had never seen before. He looked not only bewildered, but scared, abandoned.

"How do you feel, Walter?" Miranda asked slowly.

His eyes fell down to his hands against the concrete. "Strange…"

"But you still love Mother, don't you?"

His head snapped up. "Of course." The meek, frightened expression melted away, abruptly replaced with his usual blankness.

There was something different, though. His emotions had always been slight, his actions obedient and assured. Now his movements and speech patterns showed more effort. But in his eyes, Miranda was happy to see the faith still there.

"This… This is what Mother wants?" Walter asked. He was looking at her as if it was her idea. Her temper bristled. Alice had done this in the priestess' authority. Miranda smiled beguilingly and replied, "We should not have troubled Valtiel with you for so long."

"Yes," Walter agreed, pressing his hand to his forehead.

"Does it hurt?" Alice asked timidly.

"No," he said quietly.

Miranda stood up, and so did Walter. He extended his arms, examining them as if they were somehow brand new. Miranda went to speak again. "Walter--"

"I need to get back to Henry," he interrupted, and he was simply out the door, not waiting for Miranda's permission.

Miranda looked to Ivan, still wallowing on the ground. "Get up," she snapped. He fumbled to his feet, though he still refused to look at her. "Escort the Son."

Ivan turned tail and ran to catch up with Walter.

Miranda watched him follow the taller man back to camp. "You are lucky, Alice," she said to the other woman, who had drawn enough courage to stand before her.

"I knew his faith would still be strong, Mother," Alice said, with a smile that was more desperate than cheerful. "Faith, as you said--"

The abrupt smack made Ivan stop and glance behind him, though he hurried on into the fog after Walter. Alice did not see him. Her gaze was to the side, her cheek burned, and she did not dare look back at the priestess.

"You are lucky, Alice," Miranda repeated, lowering her hand. "Despite your complete misunderstanding of our faith, God still loves you and can be willing to forgive. Yet in the days when we were not so fractured, that would have been the executioner's spear through your stomach."

Alice couldn't help it. Her breath hitched and a tear trailed down her face. "I only… I was only doing what God wanted--"

Miranda grabbed her chin, digging her nails into Alice's skin. "You are a teacher, Alice, but do not take that to mean _you_ can tell a _priestess_ what God wants." She slid her hand from Alice's face, her nails scratching against the fair flesh. "You cannot feign my authority and expect no consequences."

Alice pressed a palm against the red scratches. "I expected consequences, Mother…"

"You and Ivan will not be coming with us to the island. You can tell him."

The teacher gasped in shock. After a moment she fell to her knees. "Mother, _please_, punish me, only me. Ivan doesn't deserve this. I-I coerced him. I…" She stared up at Miranda, eyes wide and pleading.

But Miranda turned away. "Ivan has forgotten his place. You and he cannot be trusted anymore."

At this, the Sister stared up at the Mother. Alice's eyes narrowed and her lips pressed together in a firm line. She lowered her gaze to the ground, saying, "I see."

Miranda seemed to look inward now. She had that quiet stillness about her that she often had when she was calculating what should come next. "They arrive tomorrow. The Saint Ladies. The Valtiel Sect." Her eyes flicked back toward Alice. "Be sure to prepare the children to greet them."

Alice could feel Miranda's glare on her, but she did not look up. She studied the dirt, her heart finally slowing. She swallowed hard and stood, but kept her head down. "O-of course, Mother." She hesitated. "Is there… Is there anything more? More for what I have done?"

Miranda stared down at her coldly, and when she answered, Alice knew it was a lie. "It's enough."

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Walter closed the door behind him. He breathed heavily, bringing a hand to his head. He felt strange, but everything was the same. Wasn't it? Why had Miranda asked him if he still loved Mother? Of course he did. Yet… something was missing. Something was wrong, like standing in a dark room with only the echoes of your own voice for company. Distressing loneliness. And Walter was afraid. The last connection was gone. He was forsaken.

No no no, he loved Mother. She wouldn't abandon him. Mothers didn't do that. Even if he had done something wrong, if Miranda had done the wrong thing, mothers were forgiving. Mother loved him. Mother had to love him. Why did he feel this way?

Henry. He wanted Henry. Walter stepped into the apartment, eyes searching the living room. The man wasn't there. Walter turned right and went down the hall, opening the bedroom door. In the dim, ruddy light from the crusted lamp, he saw Henry sitting at the desk, writing. Or drawing? Or neither, Walter saw as he came closer. Henry's left hand was sitting on his lap, but his right hand was tightly curled around a pencil and he simply moved it back and forth across a plain sheet of paper on the desk. The lead had made a thick gray line, but after some time the tip had ripped through the paper and carved into the desk. Walter closed his hand around Henry's, stopping the gritty grinding noise.

Henry angled his head toward Walter. He didn't have a blindfold on, but Walter did not mind his sunken eyelids. They were beautiful; Mother had wanted them. What Mother wanted was Good. Walter did what Mother wanted. That was why She loved him, why She had to love him.

"I wanted to draw," Henry said sullenly. He dropped the pencil and pulled his hand from Walter's. Walter saw that the pencil had no tip at all. It had broken off. Henry had just been grinding a splintered stump into a groove in the desk.

"In Paradise," Walter promised, "Mother will restore your eyes. Then you will make all the pictures you like."

Henry was silent for a while, and Walter stood beside him, trying to think of ways to make him happy instead of thinking about what had happened in the woods. He had done right. He would never wrong Mother.

"I need to see Eileen," Henry finally said.

"You can't." Mention of her made Walter feel worse. She had not wanted to see him. She had screamed and hurt herself. She had rejected him, but she couldn't do that because she would become She and rejection was not possible.

Henry stood up suddenly, nearly falling over his own momentum. "_Where is she?_" he screamed.

Henry threw his fists at Walter, all his punches missing. Walter got hold of his wrists but of course Henry struggled, spitting and cursing. Walter couldn't understand why Henry wouldn't open himself to Mother, to the honor he had been chosen for. The question ate at him. Why didn't Henry understand how important Her Love was? Why didn't he understand how lost and barren the world was without Her? The world was a terrible place with cold, unfeeling, selfish people. A place of abandonment, violence, arrogance, all kinds of sin that could drown even the good. Sin that laughed at those struggling to keep their heads above the black water, because they were just as bad as everyone else, just as filthy, just as impure, just disgusting _things_ that dared to grovel for God's Love when no one deserved it.

The Receiver demanded again: "Where is she?"

"_You can't see her!_" Walter screamed, hands crushing the other man's wrists.

Henry jerked back at the volume of Walter's voice. Walter let go of him. Henry's calves hit the foot of the bed and he fell back onto it. Hastily he sat up on the mattress, but didn't move any further, though his hunched posture showed he was afraid. Walter's anger fell beneath a sudden horror. He didn't want to scare Henry. He loved Henry. He only wanted Henry to understand, to accept God's Love, or they were doomed, wretched, cursed to Hell with no recompense. Walter fell to his knees and wrapped his arms around Henry's waist, begging forgiveness.

"I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry!" he whispered.

"It-it's okay," Henry sputtered. He put his hands over Walter's, tried to pry him off. "Walter, I don't--"

Walter only held onto him tighter, burying his face into Henry's stomach. "It's okay," he said, voice muffled against Henry's shirt. "It's okay. God loves, God forgives. God loves, God forgives. And when She is empowered you will see. You will repent and She will forgive. Mom loves you."

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

The cashier, a boy of only sixteen, leaned wearily across the wooden counter. His register sat quietly beside him; it hadn't made a sound for about an hour now. He glanced up at the clock over the door opposite him and sighed disappointedly. He wasn't looking forward to summertime, when he'd be in this store every day, but he supposed that was the price he had to pay to afford more than an embarrassedly battered Honda.

It wouldn't be so bad if he wasn't so bored. Of course, he couldn't expect much more from a back roads camping store. The place had its dedicated customers, though, especially those who preferred small, privately-owned businesses to big chain stores. They often talked his ear off about it, and he feigned interest. Yay, they were supporting the little guy. He just wanted to go home.

A girl a little older than himself appeared at the counter and plopped down an armful of merchandise. He blinked, surprised. He had forgotten that she had come in not too long ago. He straightened and started ringing up her stuff, though he paid more attention to her. She was cute. Freckles, short black hair, hazel eyes. Woulda been nice if she was smiling, though.

He grinned at her. "Going camping?"

"No." The girl wouldn't look at him. Her arms were folded and she kept biting her lip. She gazed at the counter, but she was obviously focused inward.

The boy sighed and looked down at the things spread out in front of him. It certainly looked like she was going camping. She had a backpack, a pair of thick gloves, a hunting knife, a box of granola bars, a pack of graham crackers, and a first aid kit. She was also getting one of the store's new belt radios and a pocket flashlight.

The cashier scanned the flashlight and held it up for her. "I hear these are great," he said. "Such a little light, but it works great in the dark."

She only glanced at him. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a cell phone. She flipped it open for a second, then closed it, checking the time, he figured. He set himself back to scanning again. Beep. Beep. Beep.

"Hey." She spoke so suddenly, so sharply, that he froze in his movements, his hands hovering above the counter on their way to pick up the crackers. "Do you know about how far it is to Silent Hill from here?"

His brow crinkled. "Silent Hill? Why? No one can go there."

"Yeah, I'm aware," she said, rolling her eyes. "Do you know or not?"

"Well, from here it'd take you about four hours." He eyed her. "Are you one of those ghost hunters?"

She grinned then, so bitterly that he felt bad for hoping she'd smile at all. "Heh. Something like that."

"Yeah, well, last I heard they had the flippin' army up there or something," the boy said, back to scanning. "So I dunno what you expect to do. They shot someone trying to get in the other day, my friend told me."

The girl's smile faltered. "Yeah?"

He nodded. "But I don't blame them. No one's even sure what's going on in that place. I'd rather get shot than… than…" He finally just shrugged. "They probably just did it because of the people who disappeared. Ghost hunters, looters… stupid people."

"Well, we can't all have the luck of the draw when it comes to brains," the girl retorted. Her gaze dropped. "Or luck."

"I'm just saying. Don't do anything dumb." He put the last of her things into the bag and brought up the total. "A hundred thirty-seven ninety-two."

Her sarcastic smile blazed up again as she handed him a credit card. "Well, I wouldn't wanna get _shot_, I guess!" she exclaimed, seeming to find it funny.

He decided he didn't really like her at all anymore.

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**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Thanks for reading. Please review!


	28. Chapter TwentyThree

**Disclaimer: **Silent Hill is the property of Konami.

**Author's Note: **I know, I know. Two months. School caught up with me. But now I'm on break, so... so nothing. I'm not making promises that I'm not likely to keep. But let's at least hope it doesn't take as long next time, eh?

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**CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE  
Infiltration**

Well, the kid sure hadn't been joking when he said Silent Hill was guarded. Of course, Heather had figured as much and planned on sneaking into town from the north through the forest for cover. She didn't really have a plan, though, for getting past the inevitable blockade about a mile in from the highway where she'd abandoned her car. She'd been creeping through the trees, praying that each little noise would be mistaken for a squirrel, when off in the distance she spotted a line of soldiers. They stood spaced apart along a faded nature trail as far as she could see in either direction. She crouched behind a tree and peered at them, trying to think of what to do. Maybe this would be like a movie, and a distraction would pop up or they would somehow prove to be remarkably incompetent. Yet they seemed attentive and did not waver from their posts. Another man-- a general or sergeant or something-- walked with measured steps down the line, occasionally stopping to speak to one of the privates. Heather could faintly hear their responses drift past the trees that separated them. _No, sir! Yes, sir!_ Eventually the superior officer disappeared from her sight. She tapped her fingers nervously against the tree's rough bark, wondering exactly how she could pull this off. The soldiers stood pretty far apart from each other, but not enough that they wouldn't notice her trying to slip past them. Maybe she could throw a rock and distract them? Yeah, right. Distract a dozen soldiers at once. Brilliant.

A sound caught her ear and she turned. The crushing of leaves and brush was normally a light crinkling sound, but there, at that moment, it was a brisk kind of thunder. She backed up, crushing her backpack against the trunk. She couldn't see anyone yet. How many people were moving through the woods, and why? More soldiers?

There was no time to find out. Heather turned back to the tree, stepped to the left, bent her knees and jumped as high as she could. She landed back on the ground, her bag yanking down on her shoulders, and tried again. The third time, her hands finally snagged a low branch and she hoisted herself onto it with a strained groan. Then she moved higher, searching for a well-hidden perch.

Just as she had found a decent spot, they finally passed below her. She moved her backpack to her lap, keeping her back to the trunk, and planted her feet on a thick branch. She stayed as still and quiet as she could, looking down through the leaves. Women passed on her right, men on her left, all wearing brown or white robes. Not soldiers. Heather watched them owlishly, though she wasn't sure why she was surprised. She should have expected there would be more of the Order out there somewhere. But there had to be almost a hundred people down there.

Heather stifled a gasp as the last of them passed. A man and a woman were gagged, hands bound, prodded forward by two robed men with spears. A third man dragged along a silent, terrified little boy.

Following them, overseeing the whole procession from the back, were a man and a woman. The man's expression was dark, and he looked snakelike with his dark, slicked-back hair. The woman, her white hood a ghostly swath around her dark brown face, gazed forward with a looming confidence. She wasn't as unnerving as her companion. If not for him, she easily could have come off as harmless. Heather leant away from the sturdy trunk as far as she dared, watching until they and the prisoners disappeared beneath the branches.

She waited for the soldiers to shout, to shoot even, but there was no protest. She only heard, all at once, thudding sounds, like several heavy sacks thrown to the ground. The chorus of trampled leaves never faltered. She stayed up in the tree until the noise faded before slipping back to the ground. Pulling her pack back on, she moved to the edge of the wood. There was movement far off between the trees, but no sign that any of them were turning back. She hurried over to one of the fallen soldiers and bent down, turning him over. She felt for his pulse in his neck. Not a tremor. Dead. Heather gazed up and down the line of bodies, but heavily doubted that the other men had fared better. She took a deep, uneasy breath and continued on through the woods, following the procession at a distance.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

The children spotted them first, an ashen mass in the swirling fog, approaching from the north down Sandford Street.

The first group were men, dressed in grimy robes. Their pointed red hoods hid all of their hostile expressions but their eyes. They stared coolly through rectangular slits, the butts of their sharpened spears striking the road as they walked with severe posture. Beside them were women clothed in sleek white robes, devout faces shadowed beneath their open hoods, joined hands hidden in their sleeves. The men removed their hoods and the women lowered theirs as they came to a stop before the Holy Mother sect, gathered at the roadside. Around either side of the two sects came their leaders, and Miranda stepped forward with a pleased smile to greet them. "Rosemary. Michael." She bowed her head and they returned the gesture.

Michael turned to his part of the congregation and said not a word, only made a sharp gesture with his head. Three men dragged the three sacrifices before Mother Miranda, and she beheld the bound parents and their son with satisfaction. The children of the Holy Mother sect stared at the strange, wide-eyed boy uneasily. He seemed so like them; they couldn't see a difference, really. But he was corrupted. Miranda had said so. How clever for sinners to have no mark! They were lucky to be with God, to not be taken in by this seemingly harmless boy.

"When will their lives saturate the altar?" Rosemary asked.

"Tomorrow they go to the island with the Son," Miranda replied with a smile.

"So soon," Michael commented with a pleased smirk.

"I see no reason to wait any longer." Miranda gestured toward the camp, to the administration building. "We shall discuss matters further while our Brothers and Sisters feast." She gestured with open arms to the whole congregation and said loudly, "Go and eat, my Brothers and Sisters! We shall join you later to celebrate God's coming Realization."

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

"We want to see him," Michael demanded as Miranda closed the door to her office. Rosemary nodded in agreement.

"Of course," Miranda replied. "I expected as much. Walter is bringing him. They should be here shortly."

As if on cue, there was a knock on the door. Walter entered at Miranda's prompt, directing Henry by the shoulders. A white cloth bound his eye sockets. Michael and Rosemary bowed to both the Son and the Receiver of Wisdom. Miranda gestured to a chair in the middle of the room and Walter had Henry sit down. The Receiver said nothing. He seemed to shrink into himself not only from fear, but from the weight of Walter's hands on his shoulders as Walter stood behind him.

It cannot be said exactly what Father Hayes and Mother Collins were expecting, but they seemed happy that Henry existed at all.

"He's a nonbeliever, isn't he?" Michael said despite his satisfaction.

"He was chosen," Miranda replied abruptly. "That is more than enough."

Rosemary smiled at the Receiver. She bent down and brushed her fingers across his face. When Henry recoiled, she laughed and said, "It's quite alright." She pointed to the pendant hanging from Henry's neck. "What is that?"

Miranda frowned. "I've never seen it before." She looked to Walter with a raised eyebrow.

"I found it in town," Walter replied earnestly. "It's his."

Rosemary slipped her hand under the pendant, examining it in her palm. Henry shifted in his seat. "This is a fertility talisman," she said, voice pitched high in surprise.

"Are you breeding the Receiver, Miranda?" Michael chuckled.

Miranda scowled at him. "Don't be so crass about our prophet," she snapped.

Rosemary let the pendant fall back to Henry's chest. She watched with interest as the Receiver closed his hands over it.

"Is everything prepared for tomorrow and the Realization?" Michael asked, still coarsely appraising Henry from a distance.

"Of course." Miranda folded her arms as she stared up at him. "Tomorrow two of your Brothers will go with Walter to the island with the sacrifices. The next day, we shall all go, and the Nation of Sin will meet its end."

Henry rocked back and forth in his seat, pressing his mouth to his clasped hands like he was trying to heat the pendant between them with his breath. Walter bent down and murmured something into his ear, and Henry bowed his head, still rocking.

"What of the girl?" Rosemary said, concerned.

Henry's body went rigid and his head snapped up. "Stay the hell away from Eileen!" he growled.

Miranda tsked, but ignored Henry. "We've yet to see her. I suspect she is here. I cannot think of who else Ursula would have gone to."

Henry's anger faded to confusion. "Who are you talking about?"

"I wish you had saved Ursula for the Valtiel Sect," Michael grumbled. "The Holy Mother should not have to deal with such trash."

"One would almost think you killed for blood and not for God," Miranda retorted.

"For that treachery, that _blasphemy_, it would have been slow," Michael went on, fingers twitching. "She would've begged for the spear after _my_ punishment. After her teeth were snapped off, one by--"

"Oh, hush, Michael." Rosemary swatted his arm and let out an exasperated sigh. She turned to the other priestess and raised her eyebrows. "You said the portal to the Mother's resting place is in the temple?"

Miranda chuckled and narrowed her eyes at the other woman. "Don't you worry, dear. All in due time. I wish you would learn some patience and trust me." She looked to the Son. "Walter, please take Mother Collins and Father Hayes downstairs so they may see the temple. The Receiver can wait here with me."

For a moment Walter hesitated. Not a simple, full pause as she'd seen so many times before. A hesitation. A slight parting of the lips considering an argument. A shift of weight from one foot to the other. A flicker in the eyes. Miranda hoped that Michael and Rosemary didn't see.

But after that agonizing moment, Walter merely leaned over Henry and squeezed his hands. Then the Son cupped the Receiver's face and kissed him on the cheek. Henry growled and jerked back. Rosemary laughed and Michael opened the door. Walter led them out into the hall, the door shutting again behind them.

Miranda sighed contentedly, moving around her desk to settle into her chair. She only stared at Henry for a moment before speaking. "Walter's fondness for you is endearing."

Henry didn't say anything.

"I think it would benefit you if you reciprocated."

Henry let the talisman slip from his hands. "I'm sure that's what you think," he muttered.

"Would you like to see again?"

This caught his attention. "Wh-what?" he said uneasily.

Miranda leaned forward on her desk. "The Holy Mother is powerful beyond your imagination. When She gains Her True Form, She will be free to use Her Will for whatever She wishes. She favors Her Son, obviously, so if you were to return his affection, She would likely reward you."

Henry sneered. He turned away from her on the chair and hunched over. Miranda watched him for a minute or so, letting him think it over until she realized he was ignoring her.

She let out a little laugh. "Well, I guess it's not that important to you."

"What makes you _think_," he growled, head snapping towards her, "that I would… would…" He swallowed and lowered his head again. "And you're lying. Why give my sight back if I can only receive Her messages without it?"

"I should think when She is empowered and Paradise arrives, your services would no longer be needed. Besides," she chuckled, "do you really think that's why I had your eyes removed?"

Henry sat in silence. Then, turning back to her, he said quietly, "What?"

"It's hauntingly symbolic, losing one sight to gain another. It suits the mystique of your position. But Walter told me, while we were setting up here, how determined you were, how resilient. I couldn't have you stopping Paradise, so I decided that impairment would better the cause and told Walter that it had to be done. He wasn't… _partial_ to the idea until I convinced him it was for his Mother."

Henry's fists trembled at his sides. "You _bitch_."

"You can't stop the Realization, Henry," she said, voice suddenly hard and cold like stone. "If you comply, I have little doubt that She will restore your eyes." A pause. "Watch your temper. Violence won't help you. You should recognize that I am adept at convincing Walter to do many things for his Mother's sake."

It was a promising threat, not at all a bluff. Henry counted ten in his head, over and over. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten again again again, but he hardly recognized them. They were just thoughts flung back and forth across his mind, distracting from his looming anger.

"You've been so stubborn for so long. Though Walter thinks otherwise, the Holy Mother may very well reject you from Paradise. But if you give in and satiate her son, I have no doubt that you will be allowed entrance and sight."

He kept repeating numbers, again and again, and when he could hear his own thoughts once more he found they had strayed: …sixteen-seventeen-eighteen-nineteen-twenty-twenty-one.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

The further Heather followed the cult through the woods, the harder it became to see them. Not because the trees were closer together, but because of the fog. At first it only curled around the base of the trunks, but as the Order and the trailing girl neared the town, the fog rose higher to mingle with the branches. More than once Heather stopped for fear that she had caught up to them without knowing it and they would hear her.

Finally the sound of their feet trudging through dead leaves and dirt gave way to the taps of soles on concrete. Sandford Street. Heather moved quietly to the edge of the woods, watching the faint outline of the last of the cult members vanish in the fog. They were continuing down the road as it veered south around Toluca Lake. She went east, around the head of the lake toward South Park. The house was closer than that, though. It took her less than an hour to find it.

Along the way she passed two locations, one unfamiliar and one she wished she never had to see again. The first loomed up on her right, a massive hotel, windows like closed eyes that had given up on everything, a consciousness sealing everything away. Heather found she could picture it as it must have been years ago, guests coming and going in the sunshine. They perhaps walked to town, or strolled to the lake at the back. They peered out their windows at the gorgeous hills until it was time for dinner, or maybe until a playful hand pulled the curtains shut. It had once been beautiful, but now it was painfully desolate. Just as her imagination conjured the liveliness of the past, Heather couldn't stand to look at it any longer. As she pulled her gaze away it swept across a short, stout sign, built of gray brick behind dull, gold lettering: _The Lakeview Hotel_.

When she saw the tall fence around the perimeter of the amusement park on her left, she had to slow down, had to stop. She'd never seen the park in the light before, albeit a gray, hazy light. It had always been pitch black, any patches of light only illuminating the nightmare. From a distance, from the outside, it actually looked small, innocent. The plunging roller coaster track dipped in and out of sight, crossing behind the unlit sign: _Lakeside Amusement Park_. She didn't need her imagination for this. Her own memory summoned unwanted images of blood-stained rabbit mascots, lumbering inhuman creatures, a barefoot fanatical woman, a beloved man slouched lifelessly in an easy chair. Heather hurried on down the road.

She came upon the small house after a few minutes. It was nestled near the lighthouse, at the intersection of Sandford and an unnamed road that passed the amusement park to the right. It was a quaint little place along the shore, and Heather supposed on sunny days it was actually quite pretty. She made her way up the stony walk with ease. It almost felt like she had rented the house for a vacation, it seemed so cozy.

She pulled open the screen door and tried the knob. Unlocked. She wasn't sure how she felt about that, but didn't have time to ponder it. She slipped inside, quietly pulling the door shut behind her.

The house was plainly deserted. The strange peace she had felt outside was gone, swept away by the emptiness. Everything was just so neat and clean and organized, and Heather felt deep within her that it was for nothing. No one would ever need to know where the good spatula or the remote for the TV were. No one lived here anymore.

Ahead to the right lay the living room and beyond it the kitchen. A well-trod path in the carpet led to straight to the back door. A staircase to her left probably led up to the bedrooms. At the foot of the stairs was a plain brown door, maybe to a basement, maybe not.

Heather turned the knob to the brown door and it swung open. The room beyond looked like a small library. Two shelves of files rose tall in front of her, and a longer shelf of books stood against the left wall. In the back to the left was a closed cabinet. To its right, two desks were pushed together so that those seated faced each other. Folders and papers were neatly stacked on either desk, as if the occupants had planned to come home and continue where they left off. A phone straddled the crack between the two desks. She picked it up, but of course there was no dial tone.

Sandra and Earl. Those were the names from the emails. Married couple, no kids. This research was all they'd left to the world. Heather felt an incredible pressure. What a waste, what a terrible failure she'd be if she couldn't put their work to use. What a silly thought. The cult's plans were far more urgent than a lost couple's abandoned obsession. She shook her head. She was wasting time. Best to remain aloof from the dead.

After setting her backpack on the desk, she stood in the middle of the room, between the books and files, trying to decide where to start-- or figure out what she was even looking for. One of the files stuck out from the rest, as if it had been hastily shoved into place. Heather pulled it out and flipped it open.

**CASE OVERVIEW – **_1990/04/27-036-02  
_**Event Date:** _April 27th, 1990_  
**Name:** _Charlene Devereaux  
_**Location:** _Rosewater Park (Nathan Avenue)  
_**Event:** _Ms. Devereaux was vacationing in Silent Hill alone. Took a walk through Rosewater Park and stopped to look at the water. Devereaux claims she saw a large white riverboat with two decks moving in the distance. Claims the name on side was _The Little Baroness_. Devereaux saw nothing wrong until later when she was in local bookshop and saw a book detailing the loss of Baroness back in 1918.  
_**Other Witnesses:** _3 (See: Suffixes 01, 03, 04)  
_**Notes:** _Devereaux had not returned to Silent Hill until our meeting with her, and explicitly stated she would never return again._

Behind the case description were a written testament from Charlene and several photocopies of lake photographs (with numbers corresponding to the location of the originals, probably in the cabinet), one of which showed a middle-aged blonde woman standing at the railing at the edge of the park. She looked apprehensive, as if she didn't want to be there. Looking at her, Heather figured her for a well-off suburban housewife.

She slipped the folder back into place and pulled another out at random.

**CASE OVERVIEW – **_1981/08/04-098-04  
_**Event Date:** _August 4th, 1981_  
**Name:** _Margaret Smalls  
_**Location:** _Forest Nook Inn (82 Sandford Street)  
_**Event:** _Miss Smalls, 15, was exploring the abandoned Forest Nook Inn with four friends. She found herself alone in a room on the second floor. (When interviewed, she could not remember the room number, but the police report suggests 205.) Miss Smalls claims she felt a presence and heard soft whispers, and was understandably frightened, especially when her friends didn't answer her calls. As she went to leave the room, the door swung shut and locked. Smalls was trapped for an indeterminate amount of time, and her friends do not recall ever hearing her cries for help. What happened to Smalls before she escaped the room remains unknown. The commotion made by Smalls and her friends as they struggled to leave the hotel prompted a passerby to contact the police, who apprehended and questioned the minors. Smalls refused to repeat her experience, and police noted her bleeding fingernails. Investigation found that Room 205 had claw marks in its door, a shattered mirror, and a broken lock. When we interviewed her, Smalls could not be convinced to continue her story beyond the locked door. The Forest Nook is said to be haunted ever since its founder committed suicide when his hotel endeavor failed in competition with the Lakeview.  
_**Other Witnesses:** _4 (See: Suffixes 01-03, 05)  
_**Notes:** _Miss Smalls and her friends received no consequences from the courts for trespassing, as at the time they were minors with otherwise clean records. Smalls saw a psychiatrist consistently for two years after the event._

The accompanying personal account was typewritten, a transcript from a phone conversation. There was one photocopy of the hotel from the outside, a small, three-story place withdrawn into the trees, surrounded by a brick wall interrupted by a walkway up to the front door. It didn't look very inviting. Heather wasn't surprised that it failed against the Lakeview, or that it was haunted. But she didn't want to think much more about that. She put the file back and picked another.

**CASE OVERVIEW – **_1993/11/11-109-01_**  
Event Date: **_November 11, 1993_  
**Name:** _Alan Henderson_  
**Location:** _Midwich Elementary School (South Midwich Street)  
_**Event:** _Henderson was waiting for his son at the end of the school day. He spotted a shape swinging from the roof of the building. Claims that when he ventured closer to check, he discovered the body of a young girl who had hung herself. Claims that body disappeared when the bell rang. Likely related to the suicide of Cassandra Elliot, who hung herself at Midwich back in 1969 (See: 1969/12/22-65-01).  
_**Other Witnesses:** _None.  
_**Notes: **_Henderson did not see the vision again. Still resides in town._

Another written account from Henderson and photographs of the school, though the man himself wasn't in any of them. The pictures were all of one section of the building near the roof, always with the same window. As she flipped through them, Heather expected to encounter an apparition, a face in the glass, a slight shadow on the wall, but there was nothing.

These case files wouldn't help her, she realized. She put the file back, not giving herself a reason as to why she made sure it was in the proper spot. Perhaps there would be better luck with the book cases. Her eyes swept across the titles: _Native Americans of New England_, _Merging Beliefs: The Transformation of Religion Across Time and Seas_, _The Old Gods: Silent Hill's Order_. Heather snatched up the last one, held it tightly in her hands. This had to have something. Sandra had been so excited about it in her email. Heather opened it to the first page, which had nothing but a short paragraph.

_**Introduction**_

_When I first started this regrettably short tome, I had nothing but questions. Not at all unusual for someone undertaking a research endeavor, even more so when the details already known are so few and hard to come by. Small towns are known for the close-knit relationships between the residents, and in a town like Silent Hill where everyone works together for a healthy tourist trade so they can live comfortably in the off-season, this is even more true. Secretiveness is not very uncommon in such an environment, I suppose, but the reaction I received from so many townsfolk I can only describe as unsettling. Oftentimes I would be greeted with the most kindhearted openness, only for the interviewee to abruptly close his or herself off the moment I mentioned "The Order." I must admit that there was a time or two I actually felt fear. But what, if not mystery and truth, encourages us to press on? In all honesty, I consider this book incomplete. No addendum can be made, however, until the residents of Silent Hill are ready to divulge their darkest secrets and illuminate their lost religion._

Heather shuddered. She wondered if the author suspected the darkness people in Silent Hill were capable of, if he had any idea that the Order was very much active. Well, she couldn't read the whole thing to find out. She checked the back for an index and was happy to find one despite the book's short length. Even more encouraging was a page number for _Halo of the Sun, The_. Page seventy-eight. She flipped through the book, and knew when to stop not by the page numbers, but when the symbol appeared in black, taking up the whole page. On the following page the text began, and she read through it, carefully going over every word detailing the meaning of every line and symbol, its suspected origins, its probable uses, until the very end:

_It appears that the symbol is always drawn in black or red. Interestingly, however, when I asked my nameless contributor to sketch it for me in my notebook, she took one look at my blue pen and actually recoiled. It took some time to rid her of her sudden suspicion of me and assure her I was not an enemy of her God. It would appear that the Halo drawn in blue has an adverse effect on the faith, but she would not elaborate. She felt she had already said too much, and would not answer me when I asked if there were some others who still believed in The Lord of Serpents and Reeds._

Heather sighed in disappointment. She already knew this, about using blue; she had read it in that book in the church nearly a year ago. She went back to the index again and found _Metatron, The Seal of_, which direct her to page eighty-six. Again she found the symbol spread over the whole page and the description on the following. And again she found basically the same information from the library in the church.

_This seal, also known as the 'Virun VII crest', is primarily used for protection or to dissolve other spells. My contributor, as always, was wary to discuss it. She did tell me that it wasn't commonly used because it was so powerful and the caster could never be sure what would happen. And so long as the one who wielded it knew how to harness its power, it will always bring results. I asked her how to wield this power, and she said, "The user will know." This uncooperative vagueness was not unusual for her. _

She'd been hoping to find something that gave her a clear idea of how she could use that stupid seal, not pseudo-poetic bullshit like, "The user will know." Jesus. What, did she kill Leonard for nothing? She closed the book, suddenly feeling hopeless. She sat the text on the shelf, not bothering to slide it back into place. And she jerked away from the wall when she heard it, a low rumble permeating the wall from outside. She felt horribly cold as she listened to the loud growling, like an animal with its nose to the ground, intently following a scent.

Like one of those skinless dogs… Heather shuddered. Hopefully Sandra and Earl had left something for her. She pulled open the drawers of each desk, but only found office supplies. "Come on," she muttered, walking out of the room. "You guys did dangerous stuff. I _know_ you've got something…"

Upstairs in a bedroom she went straight for the nightstand at the side of the bed. She yanked open its only drawer. "Bingo." She lifted the pistol, aiming for a moment to test its weight. She checked the clip. It was full, and an extra was shoved to the back of the drawer. There were probably more hidden somewhere in the house.

Heather heard the growl again, along with a heavy scraping sound. She went to the doorway and listened. The scrape came again. It sounded like it was downstairs near the front door. She went back into the room, over to the window. Maybe she could get the drop on the bastard. She slid the window open as quietly as she could and leaned outside, looking down. She groaned. There was a bay window in the living room downstairs and the jutting shingles over its top blocked her view. Heather gritted her teeth. She couldn't see the thing. "Better take it head on," she muttered to herself. Shouldn't be much of a problem. Not like she hadn't done this before.

She moved downstairs to the front door, listening intently. It was nearby. She'd have some good, clear shots. Piece of cake. Bloody, vicious cake.

Heather kicked open the door and quickly moved outside, pointing her gun down the front of the house. "So long, mutt!" she muttered, and she finally got a good look at the thing and saw how huge it was, its black form twice as large as the skinless dogs she'd known before, its spine on a violent arch. It growled and lowered its head, setting itself back into a pouncing position, a band of drool slipping off its bone-white teeth and pooling in the grass.

Overcoming her shock, she fired three times. She could have sworn that the shots went right into its head, but they did nothing. The growl only deepened, rose in ferocity, and she scrambled back into the house, turning the lock just as the dog leapt and slammed into the ground in front of the door. As she stumbled away from the door, the glass crashed out of the nearest window and she shrieked in shock as the dog lunged through the window frame, taking little effort to pull itself into the house. Heather flung herself into the file room, slamming the door shut and bracing her body against it. The dog drove into the door, and she was certain that she felt the wood bend inward. She planted her feet firmly down, frantically trying to look around the room as she was jarred again and again by the beast raging against the door. She let out a choked sound as she realized there was no window.

Her left foot shifted. She looked down and saw it was because she was bearing down on the rug in front of the door. She kicked the rug up and struck her foot down on the solid floor as the dog barreled into the door again, and she thought she finally heard the wood crack. The thing hit again, jolting her whole body, her feet sliding an inch across the floor. Heather stared down at the floor, trying to summon all her strength, and saw something sticking out from where the rug was flipped up. Part of a large square indentation in the wood.

Still forcing all the weight she could behind her, she stretched her leg and kicked at the rug again. It flopped over, exposing the whole trapdoor. Heather took a deep breath and pushed off the door behind her, throwing herself onto her knees. She hooked the ring in the trapdoor with her finger and pulled up, eyes focused on the darkness below while all she could hear was BANG. BANG. BANG. and the door tearing. There were no stairs, but she didn't care. She slipped down into the room below and landed hard on her feet, ignoring the pain sparking in her calves to grab a leather loop hanging above her. She'd clutched the gun in her hand all this time, but it dropped to the floor as she pulled the hatch closed. For a quiet moment she crouched, knees bent, arms stretched over her head and hands gripping the loop. She jerked once as a crash above shook dust from the low ceiling.

The dog prowled overhead, paws thudding against the floor. It growled, probably smelling her scent, Heather realized. It would figure out where she had gone. She looked desperately around the room, dimly lit by the gray light filtering in through a dirty window high on the wall. The window was too small for her to squeeze through. She glanced behind her to see a staircase to the ground floor. That was a last resort. She peered around it, and saw that the room continued around the other side of the stairs. She finally let go of the loop and moved as quietly as she could around the staircase, past towering piles of junk and over to a washer and a dryer. Beside them, to her relief, was a short flight of stairs and a door that led to the back of the house. She inwardly rejoiced until she remembered her backpack sitting upstairs on the desk.

Scraping noises came from the other side of the staircase. It sounded like the beast was clawing its way through the floor. Heather slunk up the steps and twisted the doorknob, pushing the door outwards. She cringed, waiting for the hinges to shriek, but there was only a small creak. For the dog, that could be enough, though, and when she emerged into the backyard she immediately broke into a run, her shoes sliding in the mud as she scrambled back to the road, toward the cover of the trees. She wasn't sure where she was headed, but she had to find a safe place to decide her next move.

* * *

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Ha ha, man, Heather was never supposed to show up this much. But, well, here we are.

We're nearing the end here... I'm honestly happy that it looks like I'm actually gonna finish a multi-chapter fic instead of leaving it to die.


	29. Chapter TwentyFour

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Silent Hill. Like, at all. Leave me be, you corporate jackals!

**Author's Note:** Durrr. I messed up last chapter, so you may wanna go back and reread the part where Heather is reading about the Halo of the Sun in Sandra and Earl's house.

So another long delay, but this chapter is twenty pages in Word, so hopefully the length makes up for it.

Also, I'd like to remind the reader of the **M rating** of this story. It's there for a reason. More of a reason than I expected when I first planned this story, but a reason nonetheless.

* * *

**CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR  
Conviction**

It was early morning, still dark. Walter could faintly see the hole in the cavern's ceiling, an off-black circle of sky, swirls of fog. But down on the smooth stone floor it was brighter, a ring of flickering candles casting an orange glow across the stone altar, blackening the streaks of dried blood. The wavering light played across the executioner's robe as he held the boy down on the platform. The boy struggled and cried out for his mother.

His mother wept quietly. She and the father were on their knees on either side of another executioner, who held them in place by their scalps. The father jerked suddenly, a desperate struggle to rescue his son. The executioner yanked his hand back, tearing at the man's hair, but the prisoner still lurched toward the boy. The executioner let go of the mother, lowered to one knee, and bashed the father's face into the hard ground. She screamed. The executioner stood back up and held the sagging man by the collar. He grabbed the mother's head again and pulled roughly on her hair. Her screaming died to a whine. The executioner looked up, eyes staring at Walter through the rectangular hole in his hood.

It was time, Walter knew. The sacrifices must be performed before sunrise or they would have to wait another day. He couldn't make Mother wait any longer. Yet as he stepped into the circle, his limbs felt heavy, the light was too bright. The boy fell silent as their gazes met.

Walter had seen eyes like that before: wide, fearful, uncomprehending of death. Innocent eyes. A brother and a sister playing outside. He had seen them before, in town with their mother, walking from store to store, tugging on her skirt and pointing at the windows. And then he saw them without her, outside their house. Miriam with her stuffed rabbit and Billy with his ball, both happy even without her. Walter couldn't understand that. What horrible little children, seeking joy away from their mother. So ignorant and ungrateful. And Walter saw the axe outside the shed, and he realized that children could be sacraments too, no matter how innocent.

No, no, not innocent. Nonbelievers had no innocence. They were ignorant and filthy, all of them, doomed to suffer in Hell. This ritual could actually save them, put them at God's mercy. As Walter reached into his coat and pulled out the copper knife, he stared at the boy, tried to tell him this without words, but nothing passed between them. The boy barely breathed. His eyes were already dead.

Walter brought the knife down, and though the mother screamed the boy made no sound.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Henry woke up alone. But he knew why Walter wasn't there. He lay in the bed for an hour, thinking about the family. He kept picturing Deirdre as the child. He missed her, suddenly needing to know if she was okay. He felt sick.

He couldn't lie in the bed anymore; the blankets suffocated him. He got up and the pendant slid across the front of his shirt. Holding it in one hand, he used the other to help navigate the way to the living room. He pushed thoughts of the family out of his head and focused on warming the cold talisman.

The fertility talisman. That's what that woman, Rosemary, had called it. Henry didn't know why he should feel so attached to such a thing. He'd thought about it since yesterday, but had no answer. He didn't want to think about it anymore, but it was better than thinking of Walter gutting those people on that island. He sat on the couch, warming the stone in his hands.

He heard the doorknob turn and he dropped the pendant, still cold. The door creaked open, creaked closed. Henry waited for Walter's footsteps, but they never came.

"Walter?"

A sound now. Ragged breathing.

Fearful, Henry stayed silent. This couldn't be Walter. This was a sound of panic. It wasn't Deirdre either, not the hyperventilation of a child. It was deep, like a wounded man.

"Henry."

Henry flinched, because it _was_ Walter's voice. And when the footsteps stumbled toward him, he tried to scramble across the couch, but suddenly Walter's hands were grasping at either side of his face.

"Henry… Henry…" he kept saying. He sounded as if he wanted Henry to tell him everything would be alright, that he did the right thing, but Henry couldn't tell him that. Walter kept rambling. "Henry… oh…"

Walter's hands smelled like copper. But then they slid, and Henry realized they were wet with blood.

"I'm weak. I am. What will Mother think? I did what She said. But… oh…"

"Walter…" was all Henry could reply. He grabbed Walter's wrists and pulled the slick hands away from his face. But he could feel bloody smudges on his cheeks.

"Oh… I did it. I did it. Oh… Oh, Mother…"

"Walter…" Henry tried to swallow back the bile, tried to ignore the pungent smell of blood. In his mind's eye, a faceless family lay side-by-side in open graves. "Just… just calm down."

Walter broke down instead. There was a bang at Henry's feet and Walter wrapped his arms around Henry's legs and wailed, "Mom, Mom!"

"Walter, _stop it_," Henry snapped, bracing himself against the wall. He could barely stand up with his legs held together like this. But then Walter reached up, one hand grabbing at Henry's shoulder and the other snagging the necklace. Henry cried out as the chain broke and the cold spot on his chest disappeared. He was pulled down to his knees and Walter latched around him, sobbing into his shoulder.

Henry was shocked. Walter couldn't possibly be crying over what he had done. This was the same man who had had no qualms over the Sacraments, over murder and suicide to resurrect his Mother, envisioning the joy of her presence and laughing as he chased down his last two victims. Henry hadn't thought Walter capable of tears at all. Before now, Walter got angry when he was upset.

Something had changed. Henry didn't know what, but he realized that wasn't important. Walter was hysterical over killing a family, over taking innocent life. That had to mean he knew it was wrong, didn't it? At least somewhere in that disturbed mind there had to be something left of that little boy, the one who protected Eileen. Some part of Walter who was capable of good, who didn't want to carry out the final ritual.

"Walter," Henry said, voice thick. He swallowed. "Walter, you feel bad, don't you?" Walter didn't say anything. Henry breathed deeply, reminded himself to be cautious, get this right. "You feel bad. You… There are reasons you feel bad. This is wrong. You know that. Y-You have to know that." Walter's hitching breath was hot against Henry's neck, but Henry thought he could hear the sobs getting softer. "I-I know you've always been told that this is the way God is, this is how the world is, but it's not true. They… they're wrong. This is wrong, and people are dying for it. You can't treat people this way. You… you can see that now, can't you?" It sounded desperate even to Henry. The futility was hanging over him, but he pushed it away, kept going. "You have to know you've been manipulated. Because you feel bad, no matter what they told you." He swallowed again, his hope that this would work fading fast. This would be like the other days, with Walter lecturing him on Mother's love. "You could stop it, Walter. Get me out of here, and stop it. We could…"

Henry trailed off; the sobbing sounds had stopped. He felt Walter lift his head. He felt Walter's fingers curl stiffly over his back. It was suddenly a tremendous effort for Henry to breathe.

"How could you say that?" Walter said quietly, like he was hurt, but no longer like some pathetic, wounded puppy. Henry slowly pushed against Walter's chest, trying to remove himself with as much subtlety he could manage, but Walter wouldn't have it. "We've tried to teach you… but you…"

"Walter..."

Walter let go of him, moved away, and for a stark moment Henry didn't know where he had gone. But then Walter's hand twisted in Henry's hair down to the roots, and Henry cried out as Walter yanked and he was pulled forward. Walter dragged him across the carpet and Henry screamed, kicking his legs against the floor and the walls, the pounding like that of his frantically beating heart. His hands clawed at Walter's wrists, but Walter wouldn't let go.

There was hard wood beneath him now instead of carpet. The back room. Henry was pulled halfway to his feet and thrown to the floor again. His temple smashed on the side of a table. He might have seen stars or just known them, but the pain overshadowed everything. As it faded, he lay on his side, too terrified to move.

"Nonbelievers and sin. It washes over them like black, _sickening_ oil." Walter was rambling, the lack of control in his voice terrifying. "It seeps into the soul. It seeps in and stays and ruins. You have to be cleansed, Henry. _Cleansed_."

He should never have said anything. He should've kept his goddamn mouth shut. Henry's hand pushed against the floor, moving him further away from Walter, catching the back of his head on something, the tabletop. Something rattled on top of it. He was under the table now, hunched down, pressed to the wall.

"God will cleanse you if you just let Her. If you _let Her_. With Her beautiful fire."

Something was crackling, and then Walter's hand wrapped around his wrist and pulled him forward, away from the wall, out from under the table, pulled him to something, and that was when Henry felt the heat. And it got hotter and hotter as Walter held his hand over the flames, in the flames, and Henry screamed.

"She will cleanse you. She will cleanse you."

Christ, it _burned_, _it burned_, the blistering and cracking and peeling and the sting as the flesh tried to heal only to be instantly burned away again by the fire.

"Walter, stop!" Henry howled, trying to pull his hand out of the other man's grip with all his strength, but Walter was stronger, always always _always_ stronger, because Mother wanted him to be, because Henry had to be controlled, and he would never ever get away and the pain would never _stop_ _never never never stop_.

"Don't you want to be saved?" Walter demanded hysterically.

Henry could hardly hear him over his agony.

"Don't you want to be saved?!" Walter snapped again.

He did want to be saved. He wanted this to stop. He wanted this-- all of this-- to be _over_. "Yes!" he screamed.

Walter let go of Henry's hand, and Henry had hardly snatched it away from the fire when the other man grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him forward. Henry had no idea what was happening, and then suddenly there was the unmistakable sensation of Walter's mouth over his.

The chaos of pain fell away under the confusion of what was happening, what couldn't be happening, and finally Henry broke through that too. His freshly healed hand joined its partner, both pressing flat against Walter's chest and pushing him away, breaking the seal on their lips. Henry fell back on his rear, arm flying up to shield his face.

Silence. Long, everywhere. Henry scrambled to his feet and lunged in what he desperately hoped was the direction of the doorway. His hip struck something hard, the table again. That rattling sound. Henry hit the floor and something clattered down near him. He clawed at the wood to push himself forward, to get away and his palm flattened against a point. A knife. He grabbed it, blade slicing into his fingers as he got to his feet and hit the wall. He moved quickly as he could, hands sliding over the wall until he found the doorway. He threw himself into the hall and fell again, feet snagging the edge of the carpet.

He tried to calm down, to get control over his body, but his head was reeling, his heart pounding, his right hand burning or tingling, he couldn't tell which, the fingers on his other hand screaming with pain. He had to get out out out out and he made it to the door on his hands and knees, grabbing the knob and pulling himself up, all while twisting it and pushing with all he could, which wasn't much when he couldn't gather himself together.

"Henry..."

Walter's voice, from the hallway, made him stop, his heart stop, the knife drop out of his hand. Then he dropped down, hands swiping at the carpet until he found the knife handle and held it tightly. He shot to his feet and everything focused on that door, the obstacle, and he tilted himself back before slamming into it, back and slam, back and slam, back and slam. Walter's hand wrapped around Henry's forearm and Henry whirled around and swung his fist at the other man, hitting something but not caring what. But it didn't matter. Walter grabbed him by the wrists and pulled him away from the door, pushed him up against the wall, and spoke quietly.

"This is ordained by Mother."

Crazily then, Henry thought of his attraction to Silent Hill, the pull to South Ashfield Heights, how every Sacrament had had a reason, and it couldn't be denied that he'd had one too. It was all there, and if She wanted this too, She would fucking get it, because She said so, and therefore it was supposed to happen. Everything was just lost. Lost lost lost lost lost lost and he'd never been a fighter and he was tired of being a fighter and he could easily just give up right now and let everything and everyone go to hell because he was worthless to everyone but Her anyway, he'd never been able to help, he'd failed, failed everyone, especially her and she was going to die again because he was pathetic.

He didn't know what to do when Walter kissed him. He was motionless. He felt nothing. But Walter released his right wrist and held the side of Henry's face, holding him still, and Henry felt Walter's tongue slip past his lips. Henry's stomach twisted and his free hand shoved at Walter's chest. But he was too strong. Henry ground his teeth together, refusing. Walter's grip on his face tightened, fingers pressing into his jaw, just like that first day, when he made Henry drink. So long ago when Walter first declared his love, the same day he took the knife and jammed it through Henry's palm.

Walter's hips pushed up against Henry's, and through the layers of clothing Henry felt a hardness pressing into his groin. He wanted to scream but all that escaped beneath Walter's mouth was a frantic whine. Locks of greasy hair brushed against Henry's face as Walter's stubble scraped at the skin around his mouth. And all he could smell in the darkness was blood.

A knock on the front door.

Everything froze for a moment with Walter pressed solid against him, mouth, hands, hips. Another knock and finally Walter pulled his mouth away, eased his body back slightly. Henry kept pushing at him. He felt Walter's hot shaky breath on his face, and his legs started shaking because he suddenly feared that Walter wouldn't open the door. But Walter let go of his face, though his other hand was still wrapped painfully around Henry's wrist, keeping his hand, and the knife, up high on the wall. The door creaked open, and Henry held his breath, though he didn't know who he was hoping to be there. There was no one here who could help him. Especially not the person who spoke.

"Well, I see I've made a nuisance of myself," Miranda said. Henry could hear the smirk in her voice and he gritted his teeth.

Walter's bruising grip around Henry's wrist suddenly loosened, and when he replied all his fervor was suddenly gone, replaced with his normal collected voice, though not without an uneasy twinge. "No, Mother. You... You've interrupted nothing."

_Liar liar liar!_ Henry thought hysterically, tightening his grip around the knife handle and attempting to fling himself from the wall. Walter shoved him back again, and Henry screamed, "For the love of God, help me!"

"Ah, yes, nothing," Miranda said lightly. "I will leave you to 'nothing' then, Walter." Then her voice got lower, sterner, but still not without her unbearable arrogance. "It's time the Receiver shed his disrespect for God and accept the love She has bestowed upon him."

God, Henry hated her. It burned inside him. And Walter said something soft in his ear, perhaps intended to be soothing or apologetic, but his voice made Henry's skin prickle. Walter's hand moved slightly down Henry's right wrist, thumb lightly stroking the smooth skin there.

And Henry broke from Walter's grip and lashed out with the knife, swinging it down, and the blade snagged something. Walter yelled out, the feel of his hands vanishing. Henry held onto the handle, carrying through, and slashing again. Miranda was screaming and Henry threw all his weight towards the sound, barreling into her. They smashed into something cold, solid, damp—the wall. He fell and heard her fall too and she wasn't shouting any more. Walter groaned somewhere. The knife was gone. Henry planted his hands on the floor to push himself up and it was concrete. He was in the hall. He was out of the room.

He faltered trying to get up and fell backwards again, knocking his head on the edge of something. He put his hands down again and found the edge of a shelf, no two, more, oh thank God the stairs. He turned over and scrambled to his feet, tripping up the stairs as the wall grated his hands. He fell at the top, misjudging one step too many, edge of the top step cutting into his shin. Hands down again, get up, get up, and a slight breeze ran over his fingers. The door Walter had taken him out all those days ago. Oh God, Walter. Get out, get out, get your fingers around the knob and turn and run.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Walter was on his knees back in the apartment. He barely felt the slash on his arm as the wound sealed on its own. He pressed both his hands to his left eye socket, red and white fluid leaking out between his fingers. He could feel Mother working in his head, trying to heal it. The sensation was agony. But all he could think of was Henry.

Oh, he'd never meant to hurt him. He only wanted to save him. But Henry didn't understand and Walter couldn't make him understand. Henry hated him. He could tell by the snarl on Henry's face as he brought the knife down. So ugly when he was fearful.

But Henry was beautiful, beautiful as the Receiver, beautiful when he sat quiet in the room, the temple, and Walter could just watch him in peace. That was why Walter had come right back to the room after the sacrifices. Henry could make him feel better, feel happy. But instead Henry only made him angry. So Walter had tried to make them both happy by _making Henry understand_.

But he couldn't. Walter had made him ugly instead.

The pain in his eye socket fizzled and faded. Walter looked up, blinking as his re-formed eye focused. He turned to the doorway and saw Miranda lying against the wall in the hallway, groaning, barely conscious. She would be okay.

Upstairs and through the open back door to the outside. It was light now, the world gray instead of black. Everyone would be awake soon. Walter gazed around, but there was no sign of Henry, though he couldn't see far in the fog, only to just about the edge of the forest. He walked around the building to the front. Nothing, no one. But Henry couldn't have gotten far. Not more than five minutes had passed since he'd gotten away.

He should start in the woods. Henry probably ran off straight from the door. He turned and Father Michael was coming up behind him. Walter remembered that the priest was often up earlier than the others for his own prayers and exercises.

"Good morning," Michael said, bowing. "My men tell me the sacrifices went well."

"The Receiver is gone," Walter replied.

The priest snapped straight up. "_What?_"

"Mother Miranda is downstairs," Walter added. "She's hurt."

Michael overcame the shocked expression on his face. "I'll get my men. We'll split up and find him. Wait here and I'll go with you." He ran off, shouting at the cabins.

Walter preferred to search alone. He looked up and down the road that passed the camp, deciding which way to go. But then a lone cat emerged from the fog, running over to him and twisting around his legs. Walter smiled down at it, and with a mew it pattered off, heading north. Walter followed.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

The air was moist and sickly cold; Henry knew he was surrounded by Silent Hill's infamous fog. But he couldn't count on it for full cover. He would have preferred to stay in the woods, but there he hadn't been able to hold his footing at all, and had no idea where he was going. Maybe it was a poor decision, but when he'd managed to literally stumble onto the road he decided to stay on it. All roads led somewhere. It was possible that he could find a place to hide before they found him. Not likely, but possible, and he'd take what he could get.

Just so long as he didn't go back to Walter, so long as he could go somewhere and burn away the feel of the man's touch.

He suppressed a choked cry, tried to steady his heart, calm down. He needed to find somewhere to hide. He moved to the side of the road furthest from the sounds of the water, what he assumed and hoped were the sounds of the lake, and moved warily along, as quickly as he could push himself. God, if only he could see, he could be running to his limit instead of staggering or occasionally daring a jog.

Something warm brushed up against his leg. Henry cried out and stumbled, but managed to stay on his feet. A meow made him spin around foolishly, as if he'd be able to see the cat. But the sound grated against his raw nerves. It wouldn't stop. It was trying to get attention. It scratched at his leg.

Henry swiftly reached down and felt the cat's fur under his hand, curled his fingers into the creature's flesh. It yowled and writhed; Henry couldn't tell what he was holding it by. It was louder now. Someone would hear. He felt the thing's body with his other hand, found its throat and wrapped his hand around it, snapping its neck without a thought. It was only after he was left with a limp warm body that his stomach lurched, and he dropped it, backing away and stumbling, falling and hitting his head against some hard surface. His head spun and he clutched at it with both hands.

God, how could he hope to get out of here?

He reached back and touched the surface behind him. Rough, gritty. Brick. He stood up, running his hands over it. He was able to reach up and skim the top of the wall. It must have surrounded something. A park, a building, a place to hide.

Henry moved his hands along the wall until it ended. His foot tapped concrete. A walkway. He followed it, arms extended for balance, occasionally sweeping in front of him so he didn't collide with anything. He was sure that any moment he'd walk right into Walter's arms. Instead his fingers stubbed into a solid surface. He examined it and found a knob. A door. Warily, he pushed it open and stepped inside.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

The last place Heather would've picked to stay was Forest Nook Inn. Of course, it wasn't like she'd known where she was when she spotted a crumbled spot in a brick wall while running through the trees. It surrounded what looked like a hotel tucked back into the woods, and she could see a door in the side of the building. She'd clambered over the fallen bricks and hurried to the door, yanking it open. She'd thrown herself inside and slammed it shut without daring to glance behind her for the dog. It was dark, and her pocket flashlight revealed shelves loaded with cans and boxes. A pantry. But it hadn't occurred to her exactly what hotel it was until she found a menu lying on the counter in the kitchen with 'FOREST NOOK INN' at the bottom.

She hadn't wanted to find out what had terrified Margaret Smalls and all her friends all those years ago, but the pantry was blocked off by two metal doors, strong guards against whatever might come after her. Sure, she could go searching for a safer place, but how long would that take in a town like Silent Hill? Of course she had to see how secure the rest of the Inn was before she could seriously consider a rest. It took her a couple hours to gingerly explore the whole building, and by some miracle she wasn't attacked.

Forest Nook Inn was a small hotel with three compact floors. The kitchen and dining room were in the first floor's left wing, right off of the lobby with the registration desk. The opposite wing had an office, a lounge, bathrooms, and storage. No elevators. The second and third floors were all guest rooms: seven on the second floor and six on the third. Each room was basically the same. Heather would walk in, gun drawn, check the bathroom to the side, then scan the main room, usually with one or two beds, a wardrobe, a TV, and a sitting area by the window. It was all filthy, of course. Bedspreads gray with dust, carpet mottled with dirt and who knew what else, bathroom fixtures spotted with rust, ashen windows letting in ashen light, curtains torn.

There were three rooms, however, with their own distinctive features. The first was Room 205. Heather was wary to leave the doorway, even though she checked that the lock was indeed broken, as the report had said. She didn't close the door to check for the claw marks. The floor beside the TV was littered with the jagged remnants of the mirror on the wall. But that was all. Up on the third floor, in the only suite, all of 301's windows had no glass. No pieces on the carpet, just empty frames. There were pale, defined areas on the wallpaper where mirrors used to hang. Even a hand mirror on the bedside table was missing its glass. Then down the hall, 304 wasn't in so subtle of a shape. Everything torn to shreds. The bedspread, the carpet, the wallpaper, the door, as if some beast had gone into a terrible rage. Yet the windows and mirrors where untouched, without a scratch. Heather had wished she could lock these rooms, but she could only close the doors as she'd done with all the other rooms.

Though certainly creepy, Forest Nook Inn seemed to be secure for the moment. Heather returned downstairs and took refuge in the pantry through the kitchen. She locked both doors and settled down on the floor, contemplating a plan of action.

The research in Sandra and Earl's house hadn't helped at all. If there was any clue to defeating the Holy Mother, it was buried in that mass of information. All she had found before the dog had shown up was confirmation that a blue Halo of the Sun was a big no-no, with still no clue as to why or how it could be used against the cult.

But she also had that seal that Leonard Wolf had been protecting. Heather reached into her pocket and pulled out the round talisman. She thanked God she hadn't kept it in her lost backpack. Turning it over in her hands, she felt the smoothness of the stone and traced the lines etched into the one side, filled in with what looked like wax. A triangle within two rings, with odd symbols filling in the gaps. The Seal of Metatron.

Claudia had said it was useless. And it had been, at least at that time. Had Leonard really given his life over a useless rock disc? Heather doubted it, if the symbol had a powerful history. After all, her father had written all about her origin for her. Alessa had used the Seal while eluding her mother, and it had worked for a while until that 'flauros' thing came into play. Trouble was, her dad never knew how it all worked. His writings could only give her confirmation that the symbol wasn't completely ineffective.

So what had Claudia meant? That it was just useless in Heather's hands? Made sense. Heather hadn't been brought up under the Order, so she really had no idea how their rituals worked. She didn't know any words or motions or mindsets.

It was a sickening thought, but Heather realized that she'd never know what she could do with the seal until she tried. After she was rested, she'd have to head to that camp Ursula told her about, and hope that something would come to her, that the essence of Alessa would tell her what to do.

Heather smiled wryly. And the essence of Cheryl, what would she say?

_Cry for a daddy who can't come rescue her anymore, probably._ She shook her head and pushed the miserable thoughts away. Now wasn't the time for self-pity.

Eventually she'd fallen asleep with the seal and her gun in her lap. She jerked awake when she heard a sound from within the hotel. A thumping. Shoving the stone seal back into her pocket, she got to her feet and listened intently, briefly wondering how long she'd been asleep. Then another sound, like a yelp. Heather swallowed and adjusted her grip on the gun as she unlocked the door to the kitchen.

She slipped through the kitchen, through the dining room, stopping short and aiming her gun at every shadow. The radio on her hip gave off a low fuzzy static, nothing alarming. But the noises kept coming from beyond the room, from the direction of the lobby. Heather eased the door open and peered into the plain square room. In the seating area in the middle, one of the chairs had been pushed aside. The ficus by the front desk had been overturned, fake moss spilling out of its basket and baring the bone white styrofoam. On the far side of the desk, a dark form disappeared up the staircase, the sound of haggard breathing going with it.

Was it… running from her?

Heather crept forward across the room, glancing around before focusing her attention on the stairs. She stepped over the tree, craning her neck, looking up to the second floor. She saw it again, the figure, stumbling a bit in the dark, lurching off to the right. It looked human. It was hard to tell. She slowly made her way up the stairs, listening to its distressed noises.

Her boot caught on one of the steps and she tripped, knee slamming down onto the wood and hand slapping against the wall. In the hallway she heard a strangled cry followed by scrambled footsteps and all sorts of banging. She was hesitant to give chase, so she waited until the noises stopped.

Up the remaining stairs and on with the pocket flashlight. She turned to the right and saw no one in the hall, but heard someone stumble on the stairs to the third floor. She continued upwards, light catching a sandaled foot before the figure clambered away. She stole a glimpse again as she arrived in the third floor hall, and saw it was a man. He shoved himself off the wall and tumbled into the next wing.

She moved cautiously down the hall, past Room 303 and around the corner. Room 304's door was wide open, faint light falling into the hall from the doorway. Heather put her back against the wall outside the door and gingerly peeked around the frame.

It was just as she had seen the day before,torn to shreds. Only now she saw the man, huddled up in the corner, futilely tugging at the ragged edge of a window curtain to hide himself. He was dressed plainly in brown, in a long-sleeved shirt and pants, and sandals. In the gray light from the window above him she could just about tell that his hair was dark, and he had something tied over his eyes. A blindfold? The cloth partially obscured some cuts on his cheeks. He had fresh bruises on his face, around the jaw, and were those streaks of blood? He looked like he'd been through one hell of a time.

_He looks so familiar..._ "Hey," she said quietly, stowing the handgun in the back of her pants. "It's alright."

He froze at her voice, but something about him seemed incredibly relieved. "Who... who are you?" he asked quietly.

She smiled, tried to sound reassuring. "No one you need to be afraid of," she said, coming closer and switching off her light. "You can call me... call me Cheryl."

He was quiet for a moment, then said uneasily. "Hello..."

It wasn't exactly a handshake situation, but the guy looked so haggard she wanted to put him at ease. She reached down, tentatively taking his hand. When he jerked away she said, "Shhhh…" and took it again. She shook his hand and was about to ask for his name when his grip suddenly seized and his other hand shot up to his head. She winced. "Hey, you're hurting me!" But he wasn't listening. He groaned in pain. Heather pried at his fingers with her free hand and pulled away, standing up and taking a few steps back. "H-hey, buddy? You okay?"

"Not Cheryl..." he moaned.

"W-what?"

"That's not your name," he said calmly, hand lowering back to the floor. "You're... Alessa..."

Heather snatched her gun from her waistband and pointed it at him. "How the fuck do you know that name?" she demanded.

Her voice frightened him again-- he jerked back, curled up against the wall-- and she couldn't help but feel a little bad. She berated herself. She didn't know this guy! He could be anyone, especially in Silent Hill!

Although… certainly not anyone dangerous. He looked how she felt the night before. She wondered what horrible creature had attacked him. By his dress it looked like he was some kind of prisoner. Of the Order, probably. She hadn't seen him in the woods with all those cultists the day before. He had to have been there already. Her eyes were drawn to the cuts on his face again. Now that she had a closer look she realized that they were numbers.

She lowered her gun. "Oh my God... Henry?" It was him. The guy from her dream.

His eyebrows shot up, though he pressed himself further into the wall. "How do you know my name?"

Blind. He was goddamn _blind_.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Walter slowed to a stop, stared down at the small dead cat in the middle of the road. He looked to the left, into the woods, at the hollow-eyed windows of the old, run-down hotel. The other cat, the one that had led him up the road, ignored its dead kin and pattered toward the walkway to the Forest Nook Inn's front door.

Movement caught Walter's attention, but it wasn't Henry or one of Father Michael's men. It wasn't even another cat. It was a massive black dog, nothing like those Walter had conjured. It was at least three times their size, with menacing fangs instead of a long lashing tongue. It prowled around the corner of the brick wall, its nose buried in the grass, searching diligently.

Walter's gaze turned back to the hotel. He headed down the walkway.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

"Ursula…" Heather swallowed hard. "She didn't tell me that you… that you couldn't see."

"Ursula?" Henry repeated. He wrapped his arms around his stomach and moaned. "Oh, God. Ursula…"

"Is she…?"

He laughed bitterly. "She's dead. She's been dead for… I don't know. She's dead."

"I knew it…" Heather murmured.

"Who the hell are you?" Henry snapped.

Heather raised an eyebrow at him. "You just told me my own name."

"That doesn't mean I know anything about you, or why you have three names, or… or anything…" He clutched at his head. "I just know you were supposed to be the Chosen One. The Mother of the Mother, but you rejected your mother… and your father he came for you… and… but…" He started to rock back and forth.

Heather knelt down in front of him. "Look, don't worry about it. It doesn't matter."

"Why are you here?" he asked weakly.

_To kill you. A poor, pathetic blind man, who didn't ask for any of this…_ "Ursula told me what's going on. The new ritual."

Henry grabbed her arm. "C-can you stop it?"

"I…" The gun was heavy in Heather's hand.

He let go of her, sunk into himself. "You can't."

"I can," she replied over the lump in her throat.

"You don't know a way. You know nothing. It's over. They're too strong. He… He's too strong…"

"Who?"

"Walter."

Walter Sullivan, the Son, Heather remembered. Conjurer and murderer. "They can be stopped," she said. If the seal could cancel out God's power, this guy wouldn't be immortal any more. But then she'd have to…

"They can't be stopped. They have it all. The sacrifices are dead. Today passes, and tomorrow is when it all ends."

Heather blinked. "Y-you told them the ritual?"

His head fell and his shoulders shook.

_Oh, God,_ Heather thought, _it's too late._

The creak of the front door echoed through the whole hotel. Heather's head snapped around to the doorway. She looked back to Henry when he flung his arm out to grab her, but he missed and half-collapsed onto the floor. Heather took his hand, and he held it tightly, whispering in panic, "It's him! He's coming in!"

"Who?" Heather whispered. There was blackened ring of flesh around Henry's wrist. Another bruise.

"Walter," he said into the tattered carpet.

She cursed inwardly. Not him, not now. "Henry, tell me how it's done. How are they supposed to empower Her?"

He was shaking. "He's here. He's here."

She put her free hand against his face. "Henry, you have to tell me. I have to figure out a way to stop this."

"You can't stop it. It's too late. They're dead, and tomorrow she'll die again, _again_…" His grip on Heather's hand loosened. "Tomorrow… she…" He let go of her and pushed himself up to a sitting position. Heather wished she could see his eyes, that he had eyes for her to see. Was he thinking? Was he in shock? But then he got up, slowly standing, hands twitching like he wanted to grab onto something but his arms remained at his sides. To her shock he started shuffling towards the door.

"Henry!" Heather whispered. She pulled herself up on the window sill, and when she glanced out she saw there was a fire escape. "This way! We can get out this way!"

"I have to go back," he said quietly, holding his arms out as he walked forward.

"What?!" she hissed, snagging his arm. "What are you--"

"Eileen. She's still there. I can't leave her there," he said numbly.

"Who's…" Heather shook her head. No time for that. "Henry, _you can't go_."

"I'm sorry," he said, jerking away from her into the hallway.

Heather gaped at his disappearing form and she hurried to the doorway, reaching out to him. "Henry, stop!"

He kept going, following along the wall with his hand.

"I can help you!" she said desperately.

He stopped at the corner and turned. Maybe he was thinking about it, but a blue-clothed arm shot out from the next wing and snagged him around the waist. Henry went rigid and Heather felt the blood drain from her face as the man stepped out. In the low light Heather couldn't make out much, just the blue coat, the long hair, the simple frown. Walter didn't look particularly angry. That was probably why Heather was so surprised when he leveled a pistol at her head. She dove back into the room, heard the wall in the hallway splinter after the shot. Henry shouted.

"Are you okay?" she heard Walter say, his voice deep and unwavering.

Henry stuttered. "I-I-I'm fine. Let's just-just go. L-leave Alessa a-alone."

"Alessa?" the other man repeated. "... The Heretic Mother."

_Oh shit._ Heather scrambled to her feet and dashed to the window, sliding it open and climbing out. She hopped onto the fire escape just as a shot rang out behind her and there was burning pain in her arm. She fell down, grabbing at the wound, but forced herself to leave it for now and scrambled for the ladder.

Even as she climbed down, Heather thought maybe he wouldn't follow her. He couldn't leave Henry alone to run away again, could he? Still, she kept going, jumping from the ladder to the first floor landing and hurrying to the next ladder. She kicked at the elevated top rung, trying to dislodge it with her boot so it would slide to the ground until she noticed a dumpster beneath her. The ladder would do as it was. She hastily started to climb down and the ladder gave way, and she quickly realized how stupid it was just to jump on it after kicking it. The ladder struck the top of the dumpster and the jolt threw her down. She slammed onto the lid on her back and tried to cry out, but the wind had been knocked out of her, her limbs stiff with shock. When she opened her eyes she saw movement coming around the corner of the building. Oh, God, Walter. But although she finally managed to take in a gasp of air, she couldn't move, couldn't make her limbs push her onto the ground. And her gun, where was her gun, it had fallen out of her hand.

A shadow over her. She strained to lift her head. Walter stood by the dumpster and leveled his gun at her head. She felt like a creaky-hinged doll as she tried to banish the weakness in her limbs.

"Your presence here is an insult to Mother."

Her gun, her gun, where the fuck did it go? Her arm jerked around the side of the dumpster. She breathed deep and willed strength back into her limbs.

"You cannot stop Paradise."

Heather drew her right knee up to her chest and kicked out, smashing her sole into the man's face. He stumbled back, extended arm swinging to the side, firing harmlessly at the aged brick. She rolled off the dumpster onto the ground, spotted her gun in the dirt. She curled her fingers around the handle, finally got her arms under her, and pushed herself to her feet. She was already running when Walter took aim again and fired, the bullet zipping past her back as she made a beeline toward the hole in the brick wall.

Walter set after her, but then he heard Henry screaming for him. He turned back to the hotel just as the huge dog appeared from around the back, passed him, and scrabbled over the wall, shaking the leaves of the trees nearby. Henry still screamed. His voice was coming from outside.

At the front of the hotel Walter found him, with Father Hayes' tight grip on the back of his neck. Two others of the Valtiel sect stood nearby in their simple, long shirt pajamas. They held their spears at the ready and peered anxiously around the Son.

"Leave her alone!" Henry was still yelling. "STOP!"

Michael looked irritated. "Silence, Receiver. He's right here." He frowned at Walter. "Why didn't you wait?"

Walter just stared at him.

"And you found the Receiver but you left him alone to chase some… some…" He trailed off, having no idea and looking increasingly angry about it.

"The girl," Walter said.

"Girl? What girl?"

"No one!" Henry insisted.

The priest's gaze slid to Henry and he gritted his teeth. He looked as if he wanted to throttle him but his fingers only dug a bit deeper into the other man's neck. Michael looked back to Walter. "Do you mean Alessa?" Walter nodded. "And that dog creature?"

"It's Mother's."

Michael looked intrigued, but he gestured to the road. "We must get him back to the camp before everyone wakes."

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

"You should be more cautious," Miranda grumbled. She sat forward in her chair, leaning on her desk with her eyes closed. Rosemary held an ice pack to the back of her head.

"Perhaps you should be more vigilant," Rosemary retorted, not waiting to see if Walter had any response. "The Receiver is blind, Miranda. You have the advantage."

Miranda wanted to slap her, but she kept her temper. Now was not the time to antagonize Rosemary. "Where is he now, Walter?" she asked irritably.

"Downstairs in the temple, Mother," Walter replied.

Miranda opened her eyes and glared at him. "See that he stays there until we leave tomorrow morning."

"Yes, Mother."

"So that girl is here after all."

Walter nodded, and Michael growled, "You should have waited for me. She'd be waiting for death in her own private cabin by now."

"What should we do about her?" Rosemary said, shifting the cold pack on Miranda's scalp.

"She's already being followed by that… a dog, did you say, Walter?" Miranda replied. "I don't think we need to worry too much about her."

"Nevertheless," Michael spoke up, arms folded, "I've sent my men out to look for her." He scoffed at Miranda's scowl. "I'm sorry that you see this as some kind of game, Miranda. I personally would love to see the Heretic Mother before God."

"I'm sorry that you see this as a series of theatrics," Miranda retorted.

"I would like to return to Henry," Walter said.

The priest and priestesses all looked over at him. Miranda inclined her head with a small fierce smile. "I'm sure you want to finish earlier business." But her smile faded when Walter simply opened the door and left.

And there, standing outside the half-open door, Ivan stared at her anxiously. She stared back blankly, wondering what he could possibly want. She didn't want him around.

Michael saw him too. "What do you want?" he snarled. "Eavesdropping? You little-"

"Shut it, Michael," Miranda snapped. He whirled around to her indignantly but she gave her attention back to Ivan. "What do you want, Ivan?"

The boy meekly came in, blatantly avoiding the Father's gaze. "I heard you were hurt, Mother. I just wanted to see if you were all right."

"I'm fine," she said curtly. "If that is all, Ivan, you have no place here."

"I-I wanted to ask, Mother, if you would reconsider--"

"Ivan!" Miranda snapped, sitting straight up. Rosemary lost her grip on the ice pack and it slipped to the floor. "I'm preoccupied with more important matters."

He shrank back. "I-I'm sorry, Mother. It's just Alice and I--"

"Get out!" she yelled. She picked up a half-melted candle on her desk and threw it at him as he ran out.

Michael moved to the front of Miranda's desk and glowered down at her. "Reconsider what about him and Sister Alice?"

"Oh, sit down, Michael," Rosemary said, picking up the ice pack. She set it in front of Miranda. "I think the swelling has gone down."

Michael did not sit down. He leant forward, hands flat on the desk.

Miranda glared up at him. "It's none of your concern."

"As a sect leader, it damn hell is."

"As the leader of the Valtiel Sect, your concern lies there."

"As one of the people keeping our faith alive my concern lies everywhere," he retorted.

"No one has done more for our faith than I have," Miranda shot back, standing up. Her chair rolled behind her into Rosemary, who scoffed at the other two in annoyance. Miranda went on. "I kept the lines of communication open between the three sects after Toby was sacrificed, I rescued the children, I stayed one step ahead of the heathen authorities, I made contact with the Son, I gathered everyone here, I directed the rituals, and I dealt with every setback that kept Her away from us. And now She is nearly here, so _don't_ start power playing with _me_, Michael."

He narrowed his eyes at her, but didn't say anything.

"You think I don't know, Michael? That for years you've looked for the slightest excuse to slit my throat? Burn me at the stake? You have to know your men are more loyal to me than to you, as they should be. I've kept the Order from being ripped to pieces by heretics and nonbelievers, so no one but you sees a reason for scrutiny. I'll do as I damn well please and you'll deal with it, lest God Herself strikes you down for pride and foolishness."

Their eyes were locked for a few tense moments, but finally Michael eased back and folded his arms. "You received quite a blow, Miranda. You're rattled and paranoid."

She only sneered in response.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

When Walter opened 302's door, he saw Henry huddled in the corner, behind the lamp by the easy chair. Walter walked softly over and kneeled on the couch, leaning on its arm.

"Henry…" he said. "I'm sorry." He reached out and stroked Henry's cheek.

Henry immediately shrank back into the wall, curling into his knees and bringing his arms over his ducked head. Walter recoiled, a sickening feeling rising from his stomach. He didn't know how to make it better. He had tried to love Henry like Mother said, but he had failed. He had broken Henry. But he had only done it because Henry wouldn't listen, because Henry rejected Mother. Walter only wanted to please God, to make sure Henry pleased God, to make things right for Paradise. But…

Henry, shoulders shaking, put his hands over his face and tried to melt into the wall.

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**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

So... how about those Mets?

Though I have a great fear that this chapter equals massive suck, please let me know all your thoughts.


	30. Chapter TwentyFive

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything but tens of thousands of dollars in debt. Pity me.

**Author's Note** Hope y'all enjoyed the joke April Fools ending (which was deleted from here, but is still available on my LJ). This is the real chapter, and certainly not the end. We've got four or so chapters to go until then.

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**CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE  
Cessation**

When she heard the scraping sounds against the brick wall behind her and the thud on the ground, Heather briefly thought that Walter had scrabbled after her. But then the radio exploded to life and she heard the familiar growl. She didn't look back, moved her legs faster, counted the time of the pounding behind her against the beats of her boots on the ground. It was gaining on her. The trees were too thick here and slowed her down. How could that huge thing move so quickly?

A sudden pain in her calf, a loss of momentum, and she fell forward. A tree root threw itself into her stomach, but she kept a death grip on her gun. She felt the heat of the dog's mouth around her leg, around the pain of its teeth. She shrieked, kicking out with her free leg. She tried to twist around as the beast dragged her back and caught flashes of the blood soaking her pant leg. Finally she felt her foot connect and her other leg was dropped. She flipped onto her back and shoved the gun forward. She saw her hand go into the dog's mouth and her finger snapped the trigger back. The sound of the shot came with a spray of blood around the side of the dog's head; some spattered onto her face. She withdrew her hand as the monster staggered away, and its teeth cut into her arm.

She scrambled to her feet, crying out as her bitten leg screamed at her. The black beast stumbled drunkenly, but it wasn't going down. Heather didn't wait to see if it would recover. She rushed off into the woods again, ignoring her leg.

She ran on and on until she couldn't breathe anymore, until it felt like she was operating on just a few pieces of coal in her burning lungs. Her boot caught on a root and she fell to her hands and knees. She stayed like that for a moment, breathing deeply, but found she couldn't get back up again. Her energy, her adrenaline, it was all burnt out. She tried not to breathe so hard, listened for the dog, for anything chasing her, but she couldn't hear anything. She forced herself to sit back against a tree and tried to look around, but the pervasive gray fog prevented her from seeing more than a few yards in front of her.

"Jesus Christ," Heather whispered, eyes wide, pressing back against the tree. "Jesus Christ." She drew the air deeply into her aching lungs, but the bones in her arms and legs still felt like they were made of gelatin. Her right leg ached. Her arm burned and she remembered the shot in the hotel. She lifted her left arm and saw blood trailing from her upper arm down past her elbow. The bullet had snagged her, but at least it wasn't lodged in her body. She looked at her right forearm, at the cuts from the monster's teeth. They didn't look horribly deep.

Then she was hit by an awful smell. _What is that?_ Her wounds couldn't be rotting already. And as she looked around, she saw a form on the ground just a few feet to her right, obscured by the fog and the base of a tree. She stared at it until she realized it was a person. She clapped her hand over her mouth when she realized he was dead. She wanted nothing more than to get up and keep running. But the corpse was wearing a backpack.

Heather had abandoned all her supplies in the house by the lake. She couldn't pass up this chance to replace them. She glanced around, but nothing lunged at her from the fog. And all was quiet. But if she was going to do this, she'd better do it fast. She crawled over to where the body lay.

"Oh, God," she groaned, sitting down with her legs stretched out alongside the body. The guy was already face-down, one arm on the ground hooked over his head, the other at his side. She slid the strap off the straight arm, gritting her teeth at how stiff the appendage felt through the man's sleeve. Then she pulled the bag towards the man's head, getting the strap off his other arm. She knew the bag couldn't really be as heavy as it felt. The cuts on her arms flared with the effort. She needed rest, but where could she go?

Heather put the bag on her lap and scooted a few feet away from the body. She pulled the front of her shirt over her nose to temper the smell as she set the pack on the ground and rummaged through it. There wasn't much. Two bottles of water, one unopened and the other half full. A dingy handkerchief. A pack of stacked crackers, stale. And wrapped in a stained cloth napkin, an array of tarnished silverware.

"Looter," Heather muttered, shaking her head. Probably figured he could clean the silverware up and sell it.

She left the already opened bottle by the tree. Who knew what was growing in it? But she opened the other one and poured it over the handkerchief. She used it to clean her injuries as best she could, wincing and gritting her teeth at how much it stung. Then came the matter of wrapping the cloth around the gunshot wound on her upper arm. She finally managed it by holding one end in her teeth while tying the other end around her arm with her right hand

After that she choked down the stale crackers. She was starving. She almost felt bitter against the corpse for not packing more. She took a few gulps of water but decided to save the rest.

Heather checked the seal in her pocket, suddenly worried that it had broken in her fall. But it was fine.

A twig snapped nearby and she dropped the water bottle. The radio screeched. Heather ditched the bag, fumbled to her feet, and ran. She tried to use mind over matter: her legs were like steel, they never tired, she could outrun the dog with no problem. But she was failing miserably as her legs collapsed under her despite her desperation.

She burst into a clearing, and saw the drop off just before she ran straight off it. She skidded to a stop, wavering on her feet until she snagged the trunk of a lone bent tree at the edge. She stared down the rocky slope at the bubbling stream in the moment she regained her balance, then stumbled around to see the dog only several feet behind her. It kept its bloodied head low, bony shoulders rising past its ears as it crept forward. Heather moved slowly along the drop-off, waiting for the moment to break into a run, for the dog to blink, for anything. The moment never came. The dog's gaze moved with her, and she could tell it would pounce any moment. She brought her gun up just as its hind legs pushed off the dirt. She fired and missed. The beast's paws slammed into her shoulders, knocking her to the ground. The gun flew from her grip and her hands flew up to grab the monster's head as it snarled and snapped its teeth.

Heather ground her teeth together so hard she thought they might crack. One hand was latched around the dog's jaw as the other had grabbed its mouth, her nails digging into the wet inside of its cheek, fingers in danger of being chomped off should the dog decide to leave her head be for now. Its hot breath choked her. The sour smell mixed with the blood matted down its neck and her stomach twisted, threatening to weaken the strength of her arms.

Suddenly the dog yelped and fell off her. It righted itself and kept low to the ground, ready to pounce again, though this time it faced two men on Heather's other side. Both men wore the same brown robes, though one wore a ruddy hood, and aimed the points of their spears at the dog. Heather watched in shock as the hoodless one actually spoke to the thing.

"Good beast…" one of the men said. "Give her over to us now. She will greet the Holy Mother in person."

Heather wasn't sure how she expected the dog to respond to the order. She couldn't say if the two men expected it when the dog launched toward them and clamped its teeth around the hooded man's weapon, snapping the shaft in two. The bare-headed man jabbed his weapon into the dog's side, and the beast simply swung its head around, driving its muzzle into its attacker's legs and felling him to the ground. The dog leapt on top of him and the man screamed, arms briefly thrashing. Heather couldn't see what was happening, just eager jerks of the dog's head as its prey simply stopped fighting back. The hooded man grabbed onto the creature, pulling and cursing loudly, and the dog bucked him off, turning on him. The hooded man rolled away when its claws slashed at him, and when he scrambled to his feet he had the unbroken spear. The dog and cultist circled each other, the man stepping back and striking out with his spear whenever the beast crept toward him. The man had his back to Heather when the beast finally lunged. He screamed, reeling back as he was crushed to the ground. The spear flew from his hands and landed in the soil only a few feet from where Heather lay. She flipped over and grabbed for it, pushing herself to her feet as her hand closed around the shaft.

She turned, both hands on the weapon now, and she saw the dog pushing its hind legs off the ground, leaping towards her. She stepped back and shrieked, arms coming up in reflex, raising the spear as it came down on her. She felt the pressure against the tip briefly before the dog's weight threw her down onto the ground. Claws scraped at her calf and gouged her shoulder, jaws snapped and teeth snagged the flesh around her jaw. The weight pushed the air out of her body, trapped her arms beneath its stomach. She was being flattened and maimed. Then it was as if time slowed down; its growls softened, the sharp snap of its teeth hardly made a sound, its claws seemed to rest in her flesh instead of tearing, and she realized it wasn't time, it was the dog. It lay on top of her, wild eyes glazed over, breathing with a concentration focused inward. Whimpering, Heather pulled her arms out and pushed up against its throat, slowly and painfully moving it off her. It flinched and she screamed, nails digging into its neck, blood all over her hands, but then it was still again, only breathing. She freed her upper body, then dug the heels of her hands into the ground and pushed back, sliding her legs out from under the creature.

She kept pushing back, eyes trained on the dog lying on its side. The spear had lanced its stomach, the shaft broken. She expected its blindly staring eyes to flash back to life any moment. But its breathing kept slowing as the blood beneath its stomach sank into the dirt, until it finally stopped and there was no sound from it.

All sound came from her now, from the pulse thumping in her ears, the panicked breathing she couldn't slow from her lungs, the shuffling noise her boots made against the dirt as she pushed herself to her feet, grabbing onto the trunk of a nearby tree.

She couldn't stop looking at it, convinced it couldn't be over. She knew she was bleeding badly, but could only hope that she'd be able to run anyway. It'd get up any second now, and the only people who would come would be more of those men. She was all alone here. No one could help her. Heather, Cheryl, Alessa, whoever she was, she was on her own.

Dizzy, she stepped back, away from the dog, and she fell, tumbling down the hill, over the rocks, coming to a stop at the bottom, body half in the water.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

"Hey, Deirdre."

Deirdre looked up from her soup. Across the table, Joey jerked his head to the side, gesturing to the table end. "Why is Sister Alice so sad?" he whispered.

At his question, he, Deirdre, and the other children peered at their teacher. Her bowl sat in front of her, untouched. Her hand lay flat on the table, covering the handle of her spoon, but she did not pick it up. She stared into her broth.

"You're being _rude_," Elizabeth hissed, and the children sheepishly looked back to their meals.

"I hope she's okay," Deirdre said quietly.

"Shouldn't she be happy?" Joey murmured. "We're going to see God tomorrow."

"It's much more than just 'seeing God,'" Elizabeth retorted. "It's a very big deal." The others were compelled to nod at her conviction.

"Well, duh," Joey shot back. "But why is she sad?"

"It's a big deal," Elizabeth reiterated. "It's _clearly_ a grown-up thing that you can't understand."

"Do _you_ understand it?"

"You're so _tiresome_, Joey," Elizabeth said in a lofty voice. "Eat your dinner."

Deirdre was beginning to suspect Elizabeth didn't know what she was talking about. Before she could echo Joey's question, the younger girl sitting next to her asked softly, "Have you seen the Receiver again?"

Deirdre shook her head. "Not for a while."

Joey smirked at Elizabeth. "He got out this morning."

A hush fell over the children.

"You're a liar," Elizabeth snorted after a few moments.

"I saw them bringing him back. He was all beat up."

Deirdre dropped her spoon. "Beat up?!" she exclaimed. She clapped her hands over her mouth as the others shushed her. Alice awoke from her stupor, but to their relief she just got up with her full bowl and left the table.

"Yeah," Joey said eagerly, prompting all the children to look at him again. "He had blood on his face and bruises and he looked really scared." He seemed pleased at Elizabeth's shock.

"Did something attack him?" Deirdre asked. "Chase him away from camp?"

"I dunno. Maybe."

Deirdre hid her small fists under the table. "I hope the Son got whatever it was."

"Can't you ask him?" said the girl beside her.

Deirdre shrugged. "I haven't gotten to talk to him."

"Well, it doesn't matter anyway," Elizabeth said, pointedly not looking at Joey. "Tomorrow everything will be over."

"We're so lucky to get to see it," one of the boys said excitedly. No one could disagree.

Sister Alice came back to the table, bowl gone. "Are you finished, children?" she asked wearily.

They all put down their spoons. "Yes, Sister Alice," they chorused.

"Let's get you all to the evening prayer. It's a very special service tonight." She said it without enthusiasm.

The children nodded and got up from their seats, filing in pairs between tables occupied by their elders and out of the mess hall. Alice followed them, quickly counting heads. After she pulled the hall doors closed behind them, she nearly screamed when Ivan stepped out of the deepening shadows.

"Don't lurk like that!" Alice scolded lightly, continuing behind the little ones. She didn't say that for a moment she had mistaken Ivan's old gray robe for a brown one and expected to feel the jab of a spear in her stomach.

Ivan ducked his head as he walked at her side. "I'm sorry, Sister. I just wanted to speak with you."

She was not oblivious to the anxious look he gave her and she sighed. "Help me set up the meeting and get the children settled first."

The gray fog around them was darkening to black as they walked past the cabins. It was almost night. As Alice watched the children ahead of her descend into the pit of the stone amphitheater, they were small ghostly shapes. Her eyes flickered up to the administration building as lights came on in the windows, but the light didn't even extend to the ridge at the edge of the pit. She directed Ivan to start lighting the torches while she went down with the children and sat them at the lowest level. After making sure Joey was a satisfactory distance from Elizabeth, she told them to stay put and walked back up the rings of stones. She helped Ivan finish with the torches, then walked with him a few paces away from the gathering place.

"I tried to talk with Mother today," he said quietly. "To try and convince her to let us attend the Realization."

Alice shook her head. "Her mind is made up."

"Should we even be at the service tonight?"

"Of course. There's no reason to abandon God." Not that the thought hadn't crossed her mind, to grab Ivan and run. But she couldn't abandon her punishment any more than she could abandon the boys and girls in her care.

Ivan didn't know, she could tell. He didn't know that Miranda certainly had more in store for them. Alice wished he did. It was heartbreaking to see him so hopeful, yet she couldn't tell him. The poor boy wouldn't be able to function. He was completely lost without Miranda's guidance.

"I just…"

Alice took his face in her hands, leaned forward, and kissed his forehead. "Just pray, Ivan. Give everything up to God. She will take care of us." She lowered her hands and smiled her best. "We disobeyed Mother Miranda, yes, and we deserve punishment for that. But we did a service for God, and it is up to God to judge the value of that service. Perhaps we will not see the Realization, but that does not mean Paradise is out of our reach."

Ivan looked away. "I don't think that's what Mother Miranda would say."

"I think she would be wrong."

His brow furrowed, and his gaze rose back to her. "But Sister… If she's wrong, then why is it her right to punish us?"

"Setting up a little early, Sister?" a new voice said, deep and brusque, making the Sister and Brother jump. Father Hayes came around the edge of the amphitheater toward them, the members of the Valtiel sect following him. The wavering torchlight cut across the sharp angles of his face and made his executioners' hoods look as though they were soaked in blood.

Alice couldn't look at them. She kept her eyes on the priest. "Oh, yes, Father," she said, inclining her head to him. "It's best to get the children settled down before ceremonies like this."

"You should probably be with them then," he replied pointedly. "It's all too easy for one of them to run off." He scowled, as if at a memory, but didn't go on.

"Yes, of course," Alice replied, descending back into the pit. She could hear Ivan following quickly behind her.

Night had fully fallen. The only light in the amphitheater came from the torches above. Deirdre watched the executioners of the Valtiel sect slip down into their seats, filling in the rows to her left. She heard movement and turned to see the black forms of familiar adults settle behind her and the other children. The seats to her right remained empty, and she wondered where the Saint Ladies were.

Father Hayes stood beneath a torch at the top of the theater behind his men and shouted orders. Two men got up and moved to the center of the pit, where a large pile of branches sat. After a few moments, Deirdre saw a spark, and the wood caught fire, the flame growing under the coaxing of the men. Now she could see the flat white stones encircling the lit wood, and the Haloes of the Sun drawn repeatedly around the edge of the amphitheater's center circle. Someone moved behind the fire. It was Mother Miranda, staring up at the smoke joining with the fog.

Deirdre looked again at the Valtiel sect, hoods pulled over their heads. She could hardly see their eyes. They looked like statues. The adults behind her were quiet, and she suddenly felt too scared to turn around to see if they were really there. Her hand moved across the stone beneath her and grabbed Elizabeth's hand. Elizabeth didn't say anything, but she squeezed back.

A soft sound came to her ears. The sound of singing from not far off, getting closer. Then they appeared at the top of the ridge around the theatre, the Saint Ladies in their white robes with the hoods drawn up. Each held a candle before her face, her lilting voice so light the flame did not waver. Deirdre held her breath. Their voices reminded her of her mother.

They came two by two down into the pit, but in the middle of all of them was a woman Deirdre had never seen before. One of Valtiel's executioners walked behind her, moving her along. She was wearing white, but no hood. Her dark hair obscured her face. Deirdre couldn't tell if she was singing with the rest.

As the Ladies filed into their seats, Deirdre could see the woman better. Her first thought was that she was very pretty, but as her expression became clearer in the light of the fire, Deirdre was confused by how scared the woman looked.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

She didn't want to go near the fire. She could see all the people gathered in the pit, and she wanted to get away. But the man behind her kept a tight grip on her bound arms and pushed her on. She sobbed, the sound lost in the song from the women surrounding her. The candles held before each of their faces revealed a frightening serenity.

They reached the amphitheater and went down the steps. The grip on her arms disappeared, though she felt the faint pressure of the hooded man's spear at her back. The women glided off to the left, one by one, taking empty seats as they sang. The center and far sections were already filled, dozens of unfamiliar faces lit by an orange glow. Two women stayed with her, the light from their candles melding with the light of the bonfire. It suddenly occurred to Eileen that they might burn her, and she tried to stop, leaning back. The man continued to push forward, and her foot slipped over the edge of the next stair. She stumbled and fell down the last few steps, knees scraping the stone before she fell onto her side. The two women cried out and helped her up with one hand each, still holding their candles. She tried to lurch away from them but there was the spear again, and she was forced to stand still as they brushed dirt and grit off the long sleeveless white dress they had put on her.

It was then that she noticed the children, sitting in the front, all the way at the bottom. Two rows of them, staring at her in wonder. She stared back. She hadn't known that these horrible people had children here. She couldn't fathom little boys and girls being in this place. She wanted to snatch them up by their collars and get them out of here.

The two women moved behind her to untie her arms, and Eileen saw an old woman standing in front of the fire, between it and the center section. The leader. She had only come to see Eileen a few times, only actually spoke to her twice, but Eileen remembered her name. Miranda.

"Where's Henry?" Eileen whispered as the women in white untied her. Miranda smiled darkly and said nothing. She waved her hand in the direction of the men and two in the bottom row stood up. As they came over, Eileen asked again. "Where is he?"

"He's with us, with God, with you," Miranda replied, then stepped aside.

Eileen wanted to scream, demand to know what the hell that meant, but the men each took hold of her arms and pulled her down to the ground on her knees in front of the fire, facing the cult. The heat of the flames licked at her back until the other man, the one who had followed her down into the pit, stepped behind her. He grabbed her head and held it still. She tried to struggle, but it was useless. The children still stared at her. Eileen wanted them to go away. She didn't want them to see whatever was about to happen.

"We have waited years," the old woman said. Eileen couldn't see where she was, but her powerful voice was coming from somewhere to her right. "Tomorrow our wait is over. We have remained obedient to Her. We have kept to the Path. We will be blessed with the glory of Paradise because we did not let our pain distract us and lead us to temptation." Miranda slowly walked into Eileen's view. She stood facing the silent congregation, as if she was purposely staring into the crowd.

Finally she turned and went on. "Tomorrow is the Realization, the empowerment of God. She will finally walk this Earth again." At this she smiled at Eileen, and Eileen suddenly felt very frightened. What was she talking about? What was going on?

"The key to the Realization," Miranda said, looking back to the others, "is purity. Accomplishing the purity of this world through the purity of our faith, our faith in the unerring beautiful love of God. We have here a nonbeliever, but even she will be cleansed. And she is lucky, for she will become purer than we can ever dream. Do you see God's mercy?"

Eileen's heart skipped a beat as the congregation responded, "We are grateful for God's love, for it has spared us."

Miranda moved out of view again, long skirt brushing against the symbols painted on the ground, but Eileen could still hear her. "We honor this woman's chosen position by cleansing the body, the vessel of the Holy Mother. First with our beloved White Claudia, refined into pure chrism."

One of the women in white, who oddly enough had what Eileen could swear were the kindest blue eyes, bent in front of her. She had a vial in her hand; it was filled with a white, glimmering liquid. She held it to Eileen's lips, but Eileen refused to open her mouth, at least until the man holding her head pressed his fingers into her jaw. She choked as the bitter liquid hit her tongue and slipped down her throat. She tried to spit it out, but when the vial was empty her jaw was forced shut and the man's heavy hand clapped over her mouth. She didn't swallow, breathed through her nose, but the bitterness seemed to seep away, give way to numbness, dizziness.

More words echoed in her ears. "And now we sweep away the filth of the Nation of Sin."

The ladies in white knelt in front of her, and they had brushes in their hands, short white bristles stabbing out from blocks of wood. A bucket was set between them, and they dipped the brushes into it, coating the bristles with some shining liquid. They drew the brushes across Eileen's arms, bristles dragging across her skin, their stiffness snagging every nerve. The liquid felt like a thin oil, and it felt cold. It didn't hurt much for the first few strokes, but as her sense of touch became more inflamed, it burned like the heat of the fire. She cried, begging for them to stop. It felt like needles slitting her skin to ribbons, and she could swear she could see the blood dripping down her arms into the dirt out of the corner of her scrunched eyes. But they didn't stop. One of them shifted over and started on her neck, and Eileen watched the firelight blacken her eyes and peel away her pretty skin, reveal the cracked-lipped, shriveling creature trying to hide in the pristine white robe. It tore its white claws at her throat and Eileen screamed, tried to throw herself out of the men's grip as it stroked its smooth knuckles across her face, thin tissue barely containing the knobbed bone. It spoke, words in some terrible language, a whisper that turned into a spitting hiss like blood dripping onto a frying pan. The claws dragged over her cheeks, first one, then the other, and she shrieked, thrashed. It slashed open her forehead and blood slid into her eyes.

And she was naked, and the two things, their skin cracking, peeling, slipping off black, burned muscle, they clawed everywhere, at her shoulders, down her back, over her legs, through her breasts. She was coming apart, thrown into the fire piece by piece.

And suddenly, beyond the dark figures surrounding her, under a lone torch of light she saw him. The man in the coat. He loomed over her, stretching his shadow around her until it swallowed her up, and the darkness took away sight, sound, and her scream.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Pain shot up Deirdre's arm. If she did not think her elders would look unkindly on her, she would have wrapped her arms around Elizabeth and hid her face in her shoulder instead of reciprocating the tight grip on her hand.

The Mother Reborn's skin, the skin all over her body, was pink from the rough bristles and shining from the oil. Deirdre had seen a naked woman before, from when they had to share the bath, but this frightened her. The Mother had stopped screaming, but now she stared blankly ahead, silent except for her deep uneven breaths. Deirdre had the feeling that if she called out or went over, the woman wouldn't know she was there.

There was a soft murmuring behind her, and Deirdre dared to turn her head slowly. Some of the adults sitting at the top of the amphitheater were looking at a man standing at the edge of the pit. It was the Son. But as quickly as she caught sight of him, he slipped away into the dark and fog. She quickly looked forward again, for fear of Mother Miranda.

The priestess was not looking out at the Order. She stood over the Mother Reborn. The executioner behind the Mother had let go of her head, and Miranda lifted it up again, tilting the younger woman's head back.

"It is foolish to resist your place with us," Miranda said, voice resounding throughout the amphitheater. She bent down and kissed the Mother Reborn's forehead. "God loves you, and soon you will know."

The priestess let go of the woman's head and her chin fell to her chest. A Saint Lady came with a clean white dress and the two men holding the Mother Reborn's arms helped pull it on. Then one of the men picked her up, cradling her like a child, and he, the other executioner, and the Saint Lady quietly left the amphitheater, in the direction of the cabins.

Deirdre could suddenly breathe again. Elizabeth finally looked at her. Deirdre could tell the other girl was barely holding back tears. Deirdre smiled despite herself and squeezed her hand again. She didn't want to cry either. God wouldn't like that.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

It was dark and she hurt and the monster was here. She couldn't see it—she could never see it—but she knew. At night it liked to crawl under her bed or into the closet and sit there in the dark, waiting for her to run to her daddy. But in the day, when the sun came, it slithered back down the hall and down the stairs, all the way down here.

It was coming. She could hear it breathing. It was happy. It knew she'd been peeking down, wondering if it was there, if it could smell her. So it took the light away, scared her, and she fell. She wanted to go back up, but she hurt, and she was scared. That noise, again. Scales sliding across the floor. She knew its eyes were on her, knew its tongue darted out for just a little taste before slipping back into its mouth, across its teeth.

Thudding above, someone walking. She looked up and saw a light waving back and forth, and a scared voice calling for her.

"Daddy!"

The light shone down the stairs. The monster was gone. She lay on her side on the first landing, where the staircase turned to continue down to the bottom of the basement. She peered into the dark and couldn't see the end of the stairs, unsure if it was resting there, looking up at her.

Daddy was next to her. He picked her up and carried her upstairs, asking if she was alright. He said the power was out up and down the block, and he stroked her hair. He took her to the living room and set her down in his big chair and told her to wait, leaving the flashlight with her. When he came back he had another flashlight and jar candles they had never used. He lit them, putting one on the coffee table in the middle of the room and the other on the side table by the big chair. She could smell apples.

He knelt down in front of her and shone the light on her arms and legs. He asked again if she was hurt. She nodded and he asked where. She pointed to her side, her leg, her wrist. He asked if she could move them and she tried; she could. But it still hurt and she thought of the monster and she cried. He picked her up again and sat down, putting her on his lap and hugging her tightly. She told him about the monster and how it wouldn't let her run to him at night. He petted her hair again.

"It will never get you when you run to me. I'll always hear it coming and I'll save you."

She didn't believe him. It was a big monster.

"It doesn't matter how big or mean it is. Your daddy is the strongest man in the world."

The way he said it, it _was_ like the strongest man in the world, she thought, so she believed him. He asked her if it still hurt. She told him it didn't.

"See?" he said. "You're strong too. You fell all that way and you're fine. When you grow up, you'll be as strong as me, and you can fight the monsters all by yourself." She could hear him smile. "My strong Cheryl."

The lights.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Blinding. She brought up her arm to shield her eyes and pain shot through her shoulder. She groaned, letting her arm fall back down. There was a splash. It was wet. The whole side of her body was wet.

Slowly she moved the other arm—mostly painless—and pushed herself up. Her vision focused and she saw so much gray that she rubbed her eyes. But no, still gray, the fog, the rocks, the shallow water. Water dripped down the back of her head, down her neck into her soaked shirt. She groggily looked herself over. Her left pant leg was shredded around the calf and dark red. The same for her right shoulder, shirt torn so badly the whole sleeve was missing. She inspected her shoulder. It looked like a bloody mess at first but when she used the stream water to wash off the dried blood she was shocked to find the gashes already clotted. She peeled the strips of denim off of her leg and found the same. She tentatively touched her jaw line. She could feel a jagged cut there. It was sensitive, but the bleeding had stopped. Other than the clotted claw marks and many bruises, she was fine. She was alive. The seal was still in her pocket.

"What…" she murmured, quickly trailing off. Who would she pose the question to? She hastily cleaned up as much as she could bother before attempting to stand. She was wobbly at first, and her left leg hurt like a bitch, but after a few moments she found the pain tolerable enough.

She looked around, expecting to see someone watching her, but there were only questions. Why was she still alive? How had her wounds healed so well? How long had she been out? Was it even the same day?

The last question instilled a sense of urgency. Time. Time was running out. She had to get to the cult and do something. She could worry about her miraculous recovery later. Heather crawled up the rocky slop, ignoring any flare-ups of pain. At the top she saw the body of the dog and not far beyond the two dead cultists. The terrible smell told her she'd been out for a long time. She looked back down to the stream, watching the direction it trickled. The lake should be at the tail end. The camp was by the lake. She'd follow the stream to the road, make her way from there.

She walked several feet before spotting something on the ground in front of her. A flower, small and pale, but still more alive than anything else around her. And next to it was her gun. She picked it up and noted the full clip.

"Dad… could you have…?"

But he wouldn't want her to think about that. Henry. Henry needed her.

* * *

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo **

We get back to Henry in the next chapter. Huzzah!

**EDIT:** Whoops! Guys, if you reviewed the joke chapter, ffnet still counts that as reviewing this chapter. Since you can't review the same chapter twice, if you would like to leave a comment, try leaving one on a chapter you didn't review. You can also comment on my LJ: gaiafaye dot livejournal dot com/40571.html (Anonymous comments are enabled.)


	31. Chapter TwentySix

**Disclaimer:** After all this time, I still don't own Silent Hill. ... Wait, why would I want to? That place is a sty.

**Author's Note:** Yet another long delay. And there'll probably be another one. Boo, work.

* * *

**CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX  
Disapprobation**

Mother Miranda had told him not to come to the final cleansing ritual, but Walter couldn't help himself. He wanted to see the Mother Reborn, and it was difficult staying in the room with the Receiver. The Receiver wouldn't talk to him, and he got so upset whenever Walter came near. Walter couldn't stand it and left the apartment, locking Henry inside.

The ritual had been beautiful to watch, the sparkling chrism glowing off the Mother Reborn's body, purifying her, making way for the Holy Mother. It made Walter feel better, and she must have been overwhelmed with glorious ecstasy, she screamed so loud and so long.

When the cleansing ritual had ended, Walter realized it was almost time, and he had gone back to the room, to his shrine, and he prayed. He told Mother how joyous he felt that Paradise was near, how he hoped Her new body would be enough to contain Her. Mostly he prayed for Henry, that She would clear his mind of his doubt and his troubles and compel him to forgive Walter.

When Walter finished praying he felt still inside, and it was morning. After bringing Henry breakfast, he returned to the cabin in which the Order held the Mother Reborn. Miranda had him wait outside and stood with him. Walter could hear the Mother Reborn crying and could see women in white moving past the screened windows. One of the Saint Ladies told the Mother that she had to go with Walter, not to make a fuss. The Mother wailed, crying that she wouldn't go.

"Delays," Miranda sighed, looking up towards the sky. It was just starting to get light, at least somewhat through the fog; it was still early.

The fog was a lighter shade of gray when the cabin door finally opened. Two Saint Ladies walked with the Mother, who moved slowly, hands clenched in the skirt of her fresh white dress. She wouldn't look up, and she was still crying.

"Keep her with him while we make the final preparations and get everyone set off," Miranda said to Walter.

He nodded and took hold of the Mother Reborn's arm. She cried out and reflexively pulled away, but the Ladies pushed her forward, shushing her.

"Fussy, fussy," one chided.

"Go on now," said the other.

Walter tugged on the Mother's arm and she came along. She cried harder, struggling to keep as far away from him as she was able.

Before they entered the administration building, Walter saw Brothers and Sisters moving around the camp, not hurrying but excited nonetheless. Their forms appeared and disappeared in the mist as if they were made of smoke. Their vigor made him happy, but that light feeling was brought down once again when he led Eileen through the lobby to the rear hallway, and she stopped at the head of the stairs.

Walter tugged again. She didn't budge, just stared in terror down the turning staircase, unable to see where it led. She shook, and she still wouldn't look at him.

"Henry is waiting," Walter said.

At that, she let out a little gasp of disbelief, eyes widening at the stairs. He pulled on her arm again and she obediently crept forward, following him from step to step.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo **

Henry was not sure if he had slept. His thoughts couldn't be much different than nightmares.

He probably hadn't slept, because sometimes he would think his thoughts were real, that he was being stripped, shoved down, pinned to the wall, floor, bed and he would seize up, unable to even breathe until the panic finally exploded and he lashed out at nothing.

Walter had gone again; Henry didn't know where and he didn't care. But he couldn't even be glad to be alone, because he knew Walter would come back.

Walter had brought him breakfast before leaving. Henry hadn't eaten any of it. Walter tried to make him eat, grabbing Henry's hand to plead with him or make him hold a fork. Henry had jerked away, upsetting the tray and knocking everything to the ground. Walter hadn't persisted in making him eat. He had just left without cleaning any of it up.

Henry sat at the kitchen counter with an empty glass. Its contents were a wet spot on the carpet. He wrapped both his hands around it and concentrated on the feel of his flesh molding to its cool curve. The chill reminded him of the necklace. He'd never found it after... after...

His right hand overlapped his left, and as his grip tightened his nails dug into his skin. The glass. The glass was cool and smooth and perfect. Henry couldn't feel a single crack running through it. Its lip had neither the smallest chip nor the slightest bump. Perfect. Unaffected.

The door opened and Henry froze. There was more noise than usual, more than one set of footsteps. Someone made a high whining noise—a female voice. He heard Walter say, "Wait here." The door closed and the lock clicked again.

The whimpering suddenly turned to a gasp. "Henry!" Eileen exclaimed.

Henry jolted at the sound of her voice, and the glass toppled over the edge of the counter, smashing to the floor. He cried out in dismay and threw himself down, crawling around the counter and feeling for the pieces.

"Henry!" Eileen cried out in shock.

But she would have to wait. He had to fix the glass. He scrabbled about, sweeping his hands along the floor to gather up the pieces. Eileen spoke again, her voice closer, on the floor with him, but he didn't hear what she said. God, couldn't she see what had happened? Everywhere, the pieces were everywhere, ruined. Suddenly she grabbed his wrists and tried to pull them upwards, to stop him, but he wouldn't let go of the pieces, no. He had to collect them, put them back together. He could do it, it would take forever, but he could do it, he could feel the edges, the slight curves and arches and jags, and he could match them up. He could put it back together again, make it just like it was before, perfect and smooth and he wouldn't even be able to see the cracks.

"Henry, you're bleeding!" Eileen said quietly, voice choked.

Only then did he noticed the sharp slivers of pain in his palms. He opened them and heard tinkling noises on the floor. He thought he should have some reaction, but none came. Bleeding, what did it matter to him anymore? He could cut out his heart with a kitchen knife and it would beat in his hand.

Eileen threw her arms around his neck. "Oh, Henry!" She sobbed in his ear. "Henry, Henry, Henry!"

He wanted to hug her back, but he was mesmerized by the prickling sensation in his hands, wondering what it could possibly mean if pain no longer had a point.

He felt her withdraw, though her hands were on either side of his face. "Henry, what happened to you? Why are you wearing this?" A finger slid against his temple, up under the blindfold. He felt the cloth slide partially off one of his sockets, and then Eileen's hands were gone and he heard her gasp.

"Henry!" she shrieked. "Oh, my God, Henry." She made another strangled noise, and one of his hands was grabbed. "Henry, you're not… there's blood, but…" His hand fell to the floor, and he heard Eileen moving away from him, thuds and slaps on the tile.

As he listened to her quick breathing, he slowly came back to himself. Eileen. She was here. She was alive, and she was here with him. She was okay. And then the growing happiness was abruptly choked, because he knew what she was alive for. He knew what he had done, how he had betrayed her. She would become something monstrous and evil. He had failed her again.

"Eileen, please, I'm sorry…" Henry swallowed, tentatively reaching towards the sound of her breathing. "I'm sorry, please, please…" His knees crunched against bits of glass on the floor. She didn't respond, and he felt the tears coming. She knew, she had to know, she hated him and he didn't deserve any better.

But then she whispered, "Oh, God, Henry..." And he felt her take his wrist and pull him toward her, her other hand brushing the tears off his cheeks. He fumbled until he managed to get his arms around her waist and buried his face in her chest. "It's gonna be okay," she murmured in his ear, stroking his hair.

"No, it's not," he choked. "I'm sorry, Eileen. Oh, God, I'm so sorry…"

"It is, it is," she said softly. "It's you and me again. We'll get out of here together."

"I'm so sorry, Eileen, so sorry. Please forgive me. Forgive me before…"

"Before what?"

"Please forgive me."

She pet his hair more slowly now, and he could feel her breathing hitch as she hesitated. "They... they keep talking about 'the Realization,' but they won't say what it is."

He couldn't tell her.

"Henry…" Her nurturing tone was giving way to trembling. "Why am I here? I… I died, didn't I? I must have… Why are we... Why did they do that ceremony with me? Why are you…" He felt her adjust the blindfold; it slid back down to fully cover his exposed eye socket.

Henry asked himself how he could dare to hold her like this. He knew what was coming. He had told them how to do it, relayed Her instructions, and here he was, begging for forgiveness he didn't deserve. Henry pushed her away and felt for the countertop to pull himself up.

"Henry!" she cried as he got to his feet. "Henry, what is it?"

"I'm so sorry," he choked, fumbling around the counter.

"What is it?" she demanded. He heard the sharpness in her voice; she was getting angry.

He shook his head, letting go of the counter as he moved into the living room. But there was nowhere to go to escape her, that accusing voice.

"What is it?"

"I didn't want to tell them," he murmured, pressing his hands over his ears.

"Tell them what? Henry, tell them what?"

"They threatened my parents. They were going to send Walter." He wanted to retreat to the corner, dig up the carpet and the floorboards and bury himself there. His shin bumped into the coffee table.

Eileen grabbed the back of his shirt, stopping him. Then she was in front of him, grasping his forearms and pulling his hands from his head. "What is it?"

The urge to embrace her overcame him and he did so, pressing his face into her shoulder. But she pushed him off and grabbed his face with both hands. Her voice shook. "You tell me _right now_."

Was it better to know? Or better to not know? If he could die he would've killed himself already for having told them everything, but he couldn't leave her ignorant, fearing every next moment instead of those that actually mattered. Better to know than to not. Better to be than not to be, that had been the question, nobler to suffer the slings and arrows of horrible fortune even if when opposed they'd never end.

"You're the host of the Holy Mother," he said tonelessly, pushing down a swell of emotion. He wouldn't be able to talk if he let himself feel.

Moments of silence. "… What?"

"She will have your body. She will walk the Earth in your form."

"I… I don't understand…"

"I don't know what will happen to you. Maybe you will stay with Her."

"Stop talking like that!" Eileen snapped.

"It's too late. Can't stop it. I should've stopped it. I should've… I…"

"Y-you… You _told_ them to do this?" she said quietly.

He grabbed her hands, and said earnestly, "No, no, _She_ did! She does it through me! I'm Her mouth, and it all just comes out. I can't stop it, it's like, like, like _vomiting_. She gets in my head and tells me things, shows me things, and I told Her no, I told Her I didn't want to do it, but She said yes and I tried, I tried so hard to keep it in, so hard, Eileen..."

Eileen pulled her hands away, and he fell forward onto his hands and knees. He reached up, hoping she'd take his hand, but it was left alone in the air.

"I thought I could beat Her, but I can't. I wanted to save you, I tried, I tried, but I can't do it. I'm too weak." He sat back on his shins and curled his hands intoloose fists, wondering what else he could have done, too tired to think of anything else he could do.

Eileen laughed, as if everything he had said was some twisted joke. "No, no, Henry, there's still time. We can leave here. We can make a plan, get away!"

"He brought you here because we're getting ready to leave. The Realization is today. It's now."

The door opened and Eileen screamed.At the thought of Walter, Henry quickly got to his feet and turned to face the footsteps on the carpet. Henry felt Eileen's breath on his back, her hands on his shoulders. More than one person had come in. One of them was Walter. Henry didn't see him-- hadn't seen him since he had realized what the second sight was for-- but he knew.

And suddenly everything changed. Eileen at his back, needing protection. Walter at his front, intent on having them submit to Mother. It was all so familiar, and that familiar brave part of him was rising too. One last effort, as pitiful as it was noble.

"It's time to go," Walter said.

Henry found it in himself to draw his shoulders back and growl. "No. You can't do this."

"Very, very admirable," Miranda said with a sigh.

"You know this has to be done," Walter calmly answered.

"No," Henry said, and Eileen grabbed his hand.

"Walter," Miranda said.

Henry tensed at the sound of someone approaching, and Eileen shrieked. He drew back his arm and threw his fist into the dark. His arm was grabbed, and he couldn't pull away. Suddenly he was pulled forward, and he heard Eileen scream again as she let go of his hand. He cried out for her, thrashed his whole body, but then he was wrapped in a crushing embrace from behind. He smelled Walter before the other man said a word, the smell of blood and sweat and dirt. Henry's bravado came crashing down.

"Walter, control him!" Miranda said.

It was hardly about Eileen anymore. He just wanted Walter to be far away from him. He twisted and screamed, lashing out with his legs. Walter's breath was in his ear and his arms tightened their hold. Henry couldn't calm down now if he wanted to.

"Walter!" Miranda shouted.

Something hit him on the back of the head, a brief shot of pain and white. He faded away, unable to hold on even while Eileen screamed.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo **

"Don't you all look wonderful!" Alice exclaimed, gaze moving from child to child. The boys wore their black robes and the girls their black dresses. The hems and collars were decorated with red stitches that, although a bit messy in places, were recognizable as the ancient runic symbols of the Order. "I'm so proud of all of you!"

They beamed up at her, excitement dancing in their eyes. How fortunate they all were, Alice thought, to be present for the ritual. To witness firsthand the beginning of Paradise, to have God open Her arms to them. She wanted to be there so badly, to have God tell her everything would be all right, to tell her that she had done the right thing. And though she knew it was wrong to think so, Alice wanted Miranda to know too. Alice wanted Miranda proven wrong.

Alice knew she shouldn't be so prideful, but every time she thought about Miranda, she felt less guilty for her rash actions and more worried. Father Stone had made an exception for his faith and Miranda supported that. What other exceptions had the priestess made?

Tamara appeared in the doorway at the back of the classroom. "Sister Alice, we're boarding the rowboats." The girl looked as serious as usual, though she stood with more pride.

Alice flashed a smile at the girl. "Alright then, go on now!" she told the children. "It's the big day!"

They filed out of the room. Deirdre was the last, and when she glanced behind at her teacher she stopped. "Sister Alice, aren't you coming?" she asked.

Alice smiled down at her, just managing to hold back tears. "You're going to be late, Deirdre! Don't worry about me!"

The little girl hesitated, but turned and ran out the door, Tamara following after her. Alice's gaze lingered on the doorway, on the fog, and her thoughts stretched to the masked lake.

She thought about Ursula's betrayal. She thought about what Henry had told her once, about the candles. She thought about the tale of Miriam, and the candles found in her room. She thought about Miranda's constant preaching about adhering to faith. She thought about Father Stone's journal. She couldn't be sure of anything anymore.

Her thoughts were interrupted when Miranda walked in. There was a quiet, still moment between them. Alice couldn't think of anything to say, but she knew there had never been a time for pleading.

"Come with me," the priestess said.

This was it.

She followed Miranda to the administration building. Not inside it, but around it, to the back. Alice took in a deep breath at the sight of two men from the Valtiel sect, dressed in their brown robes and red pointed hoods. Ivan was with them, staring down at the ground, hands clasped together. Alice could see him shaking in their presence.

The two executioners stood at attention before Miranda, tapping the butts of their spears against the ground. She nodded to them. Her gaze flickered to Alice, but settled on Ivan. "I'm sorry," she said, "but this has to be done."

Ivan looked up, looking somewhat confused at first, then letting his gaze flicker to Alice. The teacher saw all his faint, lingering doubts that the worst was over come forth, and he looked so betrayed. Yet he said nothing, waited for Miranda to continue.

"There is a shack a quarter mile west," Miranda said to the taller executioner. Alice knew him as Daniel. Miranda continued on: "Take these two there and deliver them into God's hands."

Ivan moaned in horror, suddenly pale like a ghost. He fell before Miranda and clutched at her dress. "Oh, please, Mother, no!" Miranda glared down on him and he bowed his head. "Please, take us with you, let the renewed Holy Mother judge us there!"

"I cannot let either of you go," Miranda said. "You do not deserve to be there."

Ivan began to cry. Alice crouched beside him and said quietly, resigned, "Now, now. Stand. Stand up." She pulled him to his feet and held him tightly around his shoulders. "When God calls you to Her, you do not weep."

"Unless you have wronged Her," Miranda said, an edge to her voice.

Face blank, Alice looked over to the priestess and said, "God will decide that."

Miranda sneered. She glanced at Ivan once, and only then did her hard eyes waver. "You should be grateful I have allowed you to stay this long," she said quietly. "And that Father Hayes was never told of your treachery." She turned and waved her hand to the executioners. The two men gestured their spears at Alice and Ivan.

Alice didn't know if Miranda watched them go. She didn't look back, and noticed with a bit of spiteful satisfaction that Ivan, although he still sobbed occasionally, didn't either.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Heather followed the stream carefully, listening for sounds of approaching people or creatures. All she heard were her own footsteps and the quickening of the water as the stream widened. She was getting closer to the lake, and her thoughts were pulled from any attempts at stealth to the task ahead.

Heather pulled the round seal from her pocket and turned it over in her hands. It looked so incredibly old, as if the stone would crumble into bits of sediment at the slightest touch. But as she held it, she knew it was true to a rock's reputation: solid, strong.

"_Oh, that's just a piece of junk. What do you think you can do with that? Do you really think it can kill God? I'm sorry to see you fell for my father's foolishness."_

Surely Leonard couldn't have been more crazy than the rest of them. The key to using the seal had to be within Heather herself. Wasn't magic dependent on the belief of the user, after all? Just Claudia expressing her disbelief with such conviction was enough to destroy Heather's own perception of the power it held. Hell, she hadn't even tried to really use it, had just expected it to react somehow.

She saw something ahead through the fog, over the small stream. She got closer and saw that the water ran through a pipe lodged beneath higher ground. The lake had to be close. She went to put the seal back in her pocket, but stopped. She'd been lucky to not have lost it already, falling off that fire escape and tumbling down the hill. Her boot would be a better place to keep it. It wouldn't do to lose the thing now, when she'd come so far.

The seal pressing into the flesh above her ankle, Heather made her way up the slight incline onto the small hill over the pipe. Soon she saw the tree line and slowed down, ducking low and using the trunks for cover. She peered at the figures up ahead across the road. The fog gave them a ghost-like quality, and got just thick enough in the distance that she could barely make out a dock. It helped that some of the figures were carrying small wooden boats from the camp to the shore, and she could hear a fair amount of splashing.

Heather retreated a short distance into the woods and moved through it towards the campground to get a closer look. She found a large rock lodged into the ground by the road and crouched behind it. Now she could see them all a little better, enough that she could see that Henry and Walter weren't among them.

Of those she could see, she counted dozens, and still more were coming. She recognized the women in hooded white robes and the men in their grungy tan robes with red hoods from two days before. Other men and women wore black robes and dresses. Then she saw the children. They walked in pairs of two over to the dock, a cultist following them. More adults joined them as they got into the boats, one chaperone to every three children.

Heather gritted her teeth; the ritual was happening. She just knew it. She'd made it just in time, yet without much time to figure out what she could do. How was she supposed to get the kids out of harm's way? There was no way the ritual would be safe for them.

Once the children had all disappeared into the mist, the rest of the adults followed. Slowly they all grouped into boats and floated off into the fog that hovered over Toluca Lake. They were commanded wordlessly by a man and woman, the last two people Heather had seen in the procession through the woods. The man looked just as severe as before, making sharp gestures although he said nothing, and the woman still presented a quiet juxtaposition, moving very little, white hood shadowing her dark face so that it almost looked empty from a distance. Once all the others were gone, they two remained, as if waiting.

A door slammed open somewhere-- Heather couldn't see where-- and a woman screamed. It was a panicked noise, broken by pleadings to be let go, begging for them not to do this. Shapes moved in the fog, and when they emerged Heather saw two hooded men each holding an arm of a thrashing woman in a white dress. The woman shrieked and shook her head violently, dark hair flying around her face.The men obediently dragged her over to the waiting priest and priestess. The prisoner's cries dwindled to a faint sobbing and the priest took hold of her neck. With a sharp gesture he directed his subordinates to the water, and they bowed and obeyed. The two cultists and the crying woman seemed to be the last ones left until Heather saw more movement. Her heart jumped a little; Walter cradled Henry against his chest, and one of Henry's arms hung limply—he was unconscious. An old woman walked at Walter's side. They joined the three others on the dock, and they appeared to be talking.

Heather took in a breath and pressed her palm against the side of her boot, where the seal was hidden. She had to trust it. She had to trust herself to know what to do with it. But that would only happen when the time came, when she took action. She pressed her hands against the rock and started to climb over it.

And that was when she heard the meows, when she finally remembered her dream. She had time to think disjointedly,_ oh, right_, before whirling around and flattening herself against the rock. There they were, hundreds of the little bastards, slinking out from the bushes and around the trees. And more in the branches, lowering their heads, stretching their necks to peer at her. She couldn't even breathe as they stared, keen eyes glinting in the fog, and already she felt as if her insides were pouring out.

A few came forward, and she scrambled back, stretching her arms behind her and flattening her palms on the rock. She backed up, pulling herself halfway onto it. Then they swarmed, running at her, leaping from the trees. Heather screamed, scrambling backwards again over the rock and losing her balance. She toppled to the ground on the other side, and the cats were on her, teeth biting, claws scratching. One hopped onto her stomach and she felt the pricks of its claws through her shirt. She swatted it away, wrenching her arm from one cat's mouth, only to have two more hook their teeth into her shirt and start pulling. They were in her hair too, but the more she thrashed, the more cats seemed to appear, yowling in response to her panic.

Something big gripped the back of her neck, curving to press into her throat. She shrieked—the dog, it had her _neck_ and it was going to _snap_—but was lifted from the thriving mass of felines. Suddenly she was held face-to-face with a sour-looking man, the one she had seen by the shore.

"You train men for years, and a little girl still gets away from them," he growled.

For a moment Heather thought he was holding her in midair, but a quick glance downwards showed that her feet were touching the ground. The cats circled them, some slowly, some pattering rapidly around them, some sitting and staring.

The man snorted and Heather cried out as she was briefly flung around by her neck, then dragged back towards the others. She cursed, pried at his hand, unlocked her knees like a disobedient two-year-old, but despite her desperate efforts she found herself held before the other cultists and their prisoners.

"Look what the servants of God flushed out of the wood," the man said, and Heather could hear the smirk in his voice. He let go of her neck but tightly wrapped his arm around her shoulders and held her against his chest. It became hard to breathe.

The dark-haired woman in the white dress whimpered, but stared at Heather pleadingly. The black woman seemed surprised, while the old woman just looked annoyed. Walter stared at her like she was some anomaly, and held Henry closer as if to protect him from her. Heather wondered where the young man was, the one she had seen in her dream.

The crying woman, older than Heather but much younger than the other two women, looked to her pleadingly. "Please... Please help us," she whispered.

The gray-haired woman laughed. "What would you like her to do?"

The young woman looked away from Heather, face devastated.

"I'd like to spill her blood," the man said, and Heather felt something sharp press beneath her jaw.

"No," the old woman said. "She'll spill her blood for the Holy Mother."

The man growled in Heather's ear. "Miranda, hesitation will only--"

Miranda laughed. "Hesitation? I am only giving Her what She wants. Why spill the girl's blood before she suffers meeting the God she rejected face-to-face?"

"Yes," the hooded woman agreed. "Let her see God's return. It's only fitting, Michael."

Heather gasped when Michael pressed the knife further under her jaw. "Her death is a fitting beginning for Paradise," he retorted.

"I'm sure the Holy Mother will agree. Don't be selfish."

"Mother would want to see her," an even tone spoke up. Walter. Heather was unnerved to see he was still staring at her.

Michael tightened his hold on Heather, but assented. "Fine. Let the Son take the Mother Reborn and the Receiver. We will escort _you_," he said into Heather's ear.

Heather grimaced. "Terrific."

"Is she armed?" Miranda asked.

Heather could feel the seal against her leg very clearly now, though she tried not to act like she was hiding something. She had actually been hoping that the seal would react in the presence of cult powers, but it did nothing. She supposed she couldn't have expected it to fly out of her boot and shoot lasers everywhere.

"I doubt it, judging how she was flailing about," Michael snickered. "Rosemary, if you please."

The hooded woman came forward, her previously surprised expression now pointedly unimpressed, as if she had been hoping Heather would've been able to put up a better fight. Rosemary patted Heather down, and Heather waited to see if she would check her boots. When Rosemary's hands only passed over the high calves of her boots through her jeans, Heather didn't relax, didn't show any sign of relief.

She heard Michael take in a breath, like he was ready to say something, but Miranda broke in, voice harried. "The others are waiting. To the island."

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo **

The shack looked no different than it had three days before. Daniel told the two prisoners to kneel in the white chalk circle, which still looked freshly drawn. Alice and Ivan took their places side by side. Ivan had his arms wrapped around himself, his head bowed, tears falling onto the chalk outline. Alice's features remained stiff, calm. She watched Daniel stand by the door, the gray light making his red cloth hood look like a bloody, metallic helmet. The shorter one stepped in front of her, spear held tightly in his gloved fist.

"Don't let the boy watch me die," Alice said quietly, looking up at him.

The executioner stared at her a moment through the slit in his hood, but nodded and stepped in front of Ivan. Alice abruptly got up and retreated to the corner, shoulders shaking. Daniel's hood muffled his heavy sigh as he moved over to her.

"Do it," he said to the shorter one, gesturing to Ivan. He turned back to Alice. "Now, now, Sister. Go with dignity."

The tip of the spear slid under Ivan's chin, pressing into his throat. Shakily, the young man looked up with tearful eyes and held his breath.

"We leave you to God's Mercy," the executioner said, tensing his muscles for the thrust.

Alice whirled around, grabbed onto Daniel's hood, and roughly pulled it around his head. Blinded, the Brother grabbed clumsily at the hood with his free hand to pull it off. Alice latched onto his spear's long handle with both hands and yanked on it desperately. She could not get it free, but the sightless Brother had to hold onto it with both hands to keep it from her. Alice struck her heel into the brother's stomach, but still he would not let go.

The shorter executioner was dumbfounded at first, then left Ivan gaping on the floor to subdue the teacher. Alice saw him coming, and it was then that she noticed the knife in Daniel's belt. She let go of the spear and snatched the knife, hurtling herself toward the shorter man and driving the blade into his stomach. He screamed, stumbling back, spear dropping to the floor. He fell behind Ivan, who scrambled to his feet and backed into the wall.

Alice grabbed the spear as Daniel whipped off his hood and rushed towards her. She lifted it, the point driving into him just below the sternum. She threw all her weight forward, forcing him against the wall, and with a grunt and a wince she pushed the spear all the way through. The brother gasped, face twisted in pain. Alice let go of the spear and he slid to the floor, the spearhead skittering across the wood wall behind him.

Alice turned, and the second brother was on his feet, having wrenched the knife from his stomach. He charged at her and she screamed, and Ivan threw himself forward and leaped onto the executioner's back. They both collapsed to the ground, the knife clattering across the floor. The executioner flipped over and instantly had Ivan on his back, the man's hands around the boy's throat. But then Alice had the dropped knife at his dripping throat, and she threw him off of the younger Brother.

Ivan didn't move at first, gaping up at her, but suddenly she had him on his feet and dragged him out the door.

The cold air stung his eyes, but Ivan couldn't close them even partway as they raced through the woods. He had no idea where they were going, what they were going to do. He could only think of what Alice had done. She clutched his hand and wouldn't let go, forcing him to pump his legs well past his breaking point. He wanted to tell her to stop, but he found he was too terrified to speak. They pushed past trees and stumbled over roots, squinting through the fog for anyone who might be there.

Ivan was sure his muscles would give up at any moment when Alice finally slowed down, and pulled them behind a tree. She crouched, yanking Ivan down with her. She breathed hard, peering around the tree, waiting. Ivan didn't look. He focused his eyes on the ground, the trickling of a nearby stream rattling in his ears.

No one came. No voices, no footsteps.

Alice pushed against the tree and rose to her feet. Ivan looked up and watched her. She stood there for a minute, looking around, a blood spattered fist raised against her mouth. She turned to him and Ivan could see that her eyes were just as wide as his. Suddenly she lurched away, towards the stream. She fell to the ground, kneeling at the water.

Ivan crawled to her side. Her hands were in the brook, rubbing against each other vigorously, the blood washing away.

Ivan sat back on his knees and carefully put a hand on her shoulder. She stopped scrubbing her hands and jerked her head toward him. He didn't know what to say. She held her dripping hands tight to her chest and opened her mouth, as if she wanted to comfort him. But instead her face crumpled and she sobbed. Ivan wrapped his arms around her.

* * *

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo **

Almost there...


	32. Chapter TwentySeven

**Disclaimer:** Don't own, don't sue. Thanks.

**Author's Note:** Woo, finally got this done, in time or Halloween, no less. Not too much left now...

* * *

**CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN  
Realization**

And again the boats converged on the island. In the thickness of the fog, the passengers of one vessel could barely make out their companions in another. None spoke; the only sound was the water caressing the aluminum hulls.

The last boat to set off held the Son, the Receiver of Wisdom, and the Mother Reborn. The Receiver lay in the bottom of the rear of the boat, but-- true to her nature-- the Mother Reborn had pulled him partway up to coddle his head in her lap.

_Please wake up, Henry_, Eileen pleaded silently while she stroked his face. _It's not too late. We have to get out of here. Somehow… _Her breathing hitched as she tried to keep down her sobs, but it was hard. She couldn't look away from his blindfold.

Eileen shuddered. It was cold on the lake, and though the dress they'd given her this time had long sleeves, it was a poor defense against the chill air. She wanted to wrap her arms around herself, but she didn't want to let go of Henry. She felt like it would leave him defenseless, as prone as they already were.

Swallowing and keeping her head bowed, Eileen looked at Walter at the other end of the boat. She felt a brief moment of panic when she saw he was staring at her. His emotionless gaze didn't waver as he rowed, tilting steadily forward and back with the motion.

Each time she looked at him, the memories of that night assailed her. Her muscles tightened as she remembered being thrown against the walls and beaten into the floor of her own apartment, trapped in a world of pain with his laughter, only freed by the appearance of the little boy. The boy, that younger version of Walter. That's what Henry had told her.

That little boy wasn't around now. Eileen assumed he no longer existed. She had waited for him in her cabin, in between meetings with Miranda and the washings from those white-robed women who never gave their names. Eileen would think she saw his shape in the shadows, heard his soft voice through the window, but he was never there.

This man was all that was left. His dead eyes, brutal fists, and blood.

And... and the subway. Looking at him brought flickers of it across her memory. It unsettled her. Walter had pursued her and Henry there, yes, in that twisted version, but there was something else...

It nagged at her, an odd moment of calm in these last moments. What was it? It ghosted beneath the surface of her memory, vague images—the cold, the grime, tattered blankets, button eyes, her mother's voice—but then it was all gone. It was only her, him, and Henry. For the last time.

Eileen bowed her head, kissed Henry on the forehead, and rested her cheek there.

How could she just die again like this? How could she get a second chance only to have it shut away, chained, then throttled? And when she'd barely wrapped her mind around how any of this could be happening at all?

"Henry," she whispered as she closed her eyes. "Henry, wake up. Wake up and I'll forgive you."

They could swim. If he'd only wake up and stay alongside her, stroke for stroke, help her stay afloat when she tired, help her drag her body onto the shore. Together, they could get away. If he'd only wake up.

"Henry, I can't beat this alone," she whispered.

Walter's voice crashed over the splash of the oars hitting the water. "You won't be alone, Mother. Not after today."

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo **

Heather was free of Michael's knife while he rowed across the lake to the island. She was forced to sit in the bottom of the boat, between the Rosemary in the back and Michael in the middle. Miranda was perched at the front, her gaze set on the nothingness ahead. Heather sometimes looked past Rosemary's smug expression, through the fog to the faint shape of the boat Henry was in.

"Who is she?" Heather asked, voice low. "That woman with Henry."

Miranda turned around and her eyebrows rose high above her smirk. "It's none of your affair, is it?" she said. "You abandoned your position."

"Oh, yeah, none of my affair at all," Heather said. "That's why I'm here."

"To finish what you began with Sister Claudia," Rosemary said coldly. "Did you expect to slay us all as you did before?"

Heather didn't reply. She wasn't sure what to say.

"Be assured that those you killed are with God now." Rosemary narrowed her eyes at Heather.

"Consider it a favor," Heather shot back.

"You shame your true self!" Rosemary snapped viciously, and Heather flinched. "You shame the precious gift God gave you. You shame Mother Dahlia, your family-"

"Don't even!" Heather felt a surge of revulsion. "She is not my family, my family is..." She stopped, looked away. She wouldn't talk about her father now. She didn't want to invoke his memory in this place, with these people.

But Rosemary laughed bitterly. "Your father, girl--"

Miranda waved her hand dismissively, turning back to the water. "Hush, this is pointless."

"Who is she?" Heather repeated. She didn't want to think about him; she wanted an answer to her question.

"She, unlike you," Rosemary replied, ignoring Miranda's exasperation, "will bring God back to us. She will become what you would not birth."

"How?"

"That's enough," Miranda sighed.

"Does it have to do with that family you brought here?" Heather asked quietly, chest tightening.

Rosemary looked surprised. Michael chuckled and, even though he was rowing, it felt like he'd tapped his blade against Heather's cheek. "Oh, tricky, tricky, are we?" he crooned.

Heather refused to turn and look at him. "They're dead, aren't they."

"If they're lucky," he said, humor suddenly gone, "their sacrifice may redeem their souls. Though, I hope you don't think _you_ will be so lucky."

"Indeed not," Miranda said, no longer trying to stifle the conversation. "At least, I'd hardly expect so after what Walter told me about the end of Sister Ursula." She glanced back over her shoulder and smiled at Heather's flicker of recognition. "It will be very satisfying to watch a heretic receive her comeuppance."

"Well, it could be more fun to drown her," Rosemary said darkly.

"You're so violent," Michael said in mock surprise. He laughed, and Rosemary's unforgiving expression broke as she joined him.

_These people have serious issues_, Heather thought.

Rosemary's cruel smirk fell away suddenly and she let out a soft, pleased "oh!", as if she'd just seen a beautiful field of flowers or a glimmering sunset over the ocean. Heather turned her head and saw a black mass on the gray water, indistinct in the fog. As Michael rowed them closer, she realized it was a small island, with a thick growth of deep green trees obscuring everything past the shoreline. A dock jutted out from the rocky shore. Just looking at the island made Heather's anxiety worse, as she was fully struck by the fact that it had been there for ages, that it must have experienced everything the town ever went through. It cemented how she was up against something far older and far more dangerous than herself.

People waited on the shore. Most of their boats had been dragged up onto the island instead of left in the water, as the dock only had room for a few. The Brothers and Sisters were as still and silent as the trees, even the children. The boat slid to a stop alongside the dock and Michael tied it off before climbing out. Heather glanced back out to the lake and saw Walter, Henry, and that woman sliding toward them, only a few yards away.

Suddenly a hand twisted in her hair, and another hand grabbed her arm and dragged her up onto the dock. She cursed as Michael threw her down, and as she began to get to her feet the murmuring reached her ears. The cultists on the island stared at her, pointing, whispering.

Michael snapped his fingers at two hooded men, and they immediately marched over and pointed their spears at her throat. Heather decided not to get up after all. Michael helped the two priestesses out of the boat, and as soon as Miranda's feet touched the dock she approached the congregation, gesturing to Heather.

"Fate has brought the Heretic Mother back to us!" she cried. "What better time for God to judge Her treacherous mother?"

Where there had been confusion in the murmurs, there was now excitement. Except for the children, who stared at Heather as though she was the monster lurking under their beds.

"Get up," Michael hissed, and Heather chose to obey him before he decided Miranda was wrong and ordered the two men to gut her. They forced her onto land, and as she walked towards the mass of people, she saw some of their stares go past her. She turned and saw Michael pull the unnamed woman out of the final boat, into Rosemary's care. Walter lifted Henry up to Michael before getting out himself, then immediately held out his arms to take the unconscious man back. But Henry stirred, and Walter carefully set him on his feet.

Henry abruptly lurched forward, and would've collapsed if Walter hadn't hooked his arm around the blind man's stomach. Henry made retching noises, but nothing passed from his mouth.

"What'd you do to him?" Heather asked, glaring at the priest and priestesses. He looked so pale.

Henry's head jerked up after she spoke, but before he could say more than "You..." Michael drew out his knife and pointed it at her chest. "Start walking, heretic." It was more than a threat to her; it was also a signal. All the members of the Order began to move, heading for a dirt path that slipped through a break in the trees.

They set off along the path, Miranda in the lead. Heather didn't know if it was part of the ritual or just apprehension that kept everyone quiet. She started to wish that someone would speak, even that everyone would chant, anything to break the eerie silence of the island. There were no birds to be heard here, and Heather had the strong feeling that if she were able to search, she wouldn't find sign of any animal at all, not even those cats. The dirt path they traveled along was narrow, often overtaken with sprawling bushes or obstructed by low hanging branches. The thickness of the branches overhead blocked out most of the gray light allowed by the fog, only palely lighting the way. Heather wondered how anyone could think some wonderful Paradise would begin in such a dead place.

The procession moved slowly as Walter led Henry along ahead of Heather, and the woman in the white dress walked ahead of them. As they approached the entrance of a cave, Heather heard snippets of what the woman whispered to Henry-- where were they going, what was happening-- but all Henry ever said in return was, "I'm sorry, Eileen." Heather wanted to say something, tell them it would be alright, but she wasn't crazy about lying. She tried to concentrate her thoughts on the seal, imagining it sliding up and out of her boot high over the procession, and unleashing its power, somehow obliterating their captors but leaving the three prisoners safe. But she had no such luck, and when they entered the dark mouth of the cave she gave up on it.

It only took a minute or so to emerge from the stone tunnel into the main chamber, vast and round, dimly lit by a hole in the rock above. The congregation's footsteps echoed, counting down the time, and Heather was horrified that she had no ideas, that she couldn't even reach down and grab the seal with so many eyes on her. Michael pulled her off to the right, closer to the flat rock in the center of the cave than the Brothers and Sisters who kept close to the wall. The priest wrapped one arm around her shoulders and pressed his knife under her jaw. She glanced around, hoping to think of something-- after all, the last moment was the prime time for last ditch efforts.

The children clustered together not far from the mouth of the tunnel. Walter had Henry on the other side of the room. Miranda watched impassively as two hooded men pulled Eileen thrashing and screaming to the central platform, lifting her onto it. Miranda shouted at them and one slapped Eileen across the face, silencing her.

Rosemary came into the light from the shadows. She held a large bowl, and Heather could see that something red had spilled over the lip. Blood, she knew, and she dreaded what was to come.

Eileen was held down on the platform, and Miranda stepped forward, reaching up toward the light.

"It is time for our Mother to restore Her World," she said, voice filling the cold stone cavern.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Henry wanted to cover his ears, but Walter had both his arms wrapped around him. It was less like he was being held back from Eileen and more like Walter was trying to comfort him. "It's time. Soon we will be in Paradise," Walter kept murmuring into his ear, and Henry shuddered. This was it, and the best he could hope for when the moment came was death.

He heard sickening, thick choking noises, sometimes broken by a sob or a cry. He didn't need to see what was happening in the middle of the room; he already knew because She had already shown him how the Mother Reborn was to be imbued with the Child's Love, the Man's Guile, and the Woman's Gift. Simply pry open her jaws and force them down her throat, the heart and the gray matter and the ovaries. If it came back up, force it down, cut them into bits and chunks if need be, just make sure she swallowed it all, that she had the lives of this world inside her.

He heard that girl—Alessa, Cheryl—groan across the room. Why had she come? Did she really think she could put an end to this, that she had the power or will to stop it? She couldn't even save her own father, couldn't do anything more than survive last time. But she had a better shot than he did, he who'd fought Walter for ages and lost.

Walter whispered, "Mother will confront the sins of this world, and then they will be gone, and you can be happy."

Even now, Henry felt pity. Pity for the abandoned baby, for the little boy raised in the Order's gospel, for the young man who persisted to believe that an apartment—a hollow cube of wood and nails and plaster—was his mother. He and everyone else around Henry believed in a wonderful afterlife without pain, a Paradise in which they'd be reunited with God, a God that thrived on agony. Yet at the same time, Henry _hated_ him, this childish, obsessive man who refused to look past his own wants, who'd kill without remorse, nearly commit rape to force Henry to break. Before now, Henry had never sincerely wanted anyone to die, but he knew that it would make all this over, even if things were never the same.

And all the while, Eileen choked on the lives of the dead. Henry prayed that her own death would come quickly.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Heather didn't want to see any more, not after watching them pry open Eileen's mouth and force down the first piece of flesh, fingers invading her throat, jamming the slimy meat down. Heather couldn't watch, it made her feel sick, like watching Claudia swallow that thick, wriggling worm in the church. She closed her eyes, but she couldn't cover her ears so as not to hear the horrible choking noises, the sobs around each bloody chunk, and then she could only think of how it had felt to choke up the fetus, to feel it writhing like it was trying to squirm back down her throat. Heather wanted to scream at Eileen to get it out of her, to get on her hands and knees and reject it, vomit it all onto the ground.

The hacking noises stopped up, reduced to a heavy groan. Heather opened her eyes. Eileen sat up on the stone, arms slack, head thrown back. She looked up at the light, eyes rolling in the back of her head. Miranda stood in front of her with a book open in her hands and recited unfamiliar passages. Heather didn't focus on the words; she was entranced by Eileen's stupor, by that awful sound.

Miranda closed the book with a sharp echoing clap and dropped it, raising her arms and shouting from memory. Eileen started to convulse, limbs twitching and flopping like a doll shaken by a screaming child. She lurched more violently as Miranda's voice got louder, higher, stretching up that faint beam of light. But cold darkness rose from the cave floor. Heather felt like she was standing in snow, and when she glanced down she couldn't see her feet. None of the cultists—the awed Brothers and Sisters—seemed to notice, staring with reverence at Eileen's spasming form. Heather couldn't see the children; they were swallowed up by the rising blackness.

Heather heard a low sound behind her head, from Michael's throat. A deep, guttural hum spread all around her through the Order, the thrum of their joined voices rising with their priestess' proclamations. It encouraged the darkness, the chill spreading up Heather's thighs, and she found herself trembling. So much worse than fighting those bizarre twitching monsters. So much worse when they were human, when they should know better, when they were all joined in their frenzied divine bliss, completely unmoved by the darkness overcoming them.

Blood spilled from Eileen's lips, and for a moment Heather was relieved. Eileen was rejecting the offering, refusing possession, but then red lines trickled from her nostrils, from her ears, the corners of her eyes. Heather felt sick when two dark spots spread beneath the neckline of her dress, when a crimson stain spread over her lap and trickled down the platform. So much blood, how could a person have that much blood?

"God and Paradise are One, and She is here!" Miranda declared, arms thrown out to her sides. With that motion the throaty hum cut off and Eileen stopped moving. The darkness receded into the caves edges, but Heather still felt the cold wrapped around her bones. She couldn't take her gaze from Eileen's body, still sitting on the platform, spine arched back, head tilted back in the light, dress soaked with blood.

"Eileen." Henry's voice was soft. Heather never would've heard him if all the others hadn't been completely silent. There was no response, no reaction. She could swear she could feel her pulse beating against Michael's knife.

Then, slowly, Eileen blinked. In a languid motion she uncurled her back, head tilting back down. She still sat on the rock, yet Heather suddenly thought she seemed taller, poised, like a snake.

Eileen slowly lifted her hand to her face and wiped the blood off her upper lip. As she curiously examined the red liquid on her fingers, her tongue slowly swept around the outside of her mouth, licking up the blood, streaking a white line beneath her lower lip. Heather could see her swallow. Eileen looked neither pleased nor displeased, and then her eyes left her hands to look out at the silent congregation. It took a moment for Heather to realize she was staring at Henry.

Henry hadn't said Eileen's name again, and by his white expression, Heather didn't think he wanted to. Nevertheless, Eileen's eyes were locked onto him. Her arm lowered and her hand hung back on her wrist, a passive order for him to come forward. Walter told him to go to her, his voice soft, barely audible, and he brought Henry forward half of the way, leaving him on his own for the rest of the distance. It wasn't far, but Henry moved slowly. If he had his sight, Heather would have screamed at him to run.

Henry stopped, whether from fear or lack of direction Heather didn't know. But then Eileen's voice rang throughout the chamber with his name and he gingerly moved toward her voice, closing the distance between them. He kept his head down.

She slipped off the platform then, staring up at him, then pressed her hands down on both his shoulders until he was on his knees. He shook, and Heather held her breath as the woman leaned down, putting her face by his ear.

"My Receiver of Wisdom," Eileen's dead voice breathed.

Henry whimpered, trembled more. Eileen's hands, looking pale and cold in the gray light, trailed up his shoulders and neck and the sides of his face, nails slipping beneath his blindfold. She pulled it off slowly, revealing wrinkled, strangely flat eyelids. The cloth made no sound as it fell to the floor

"You," she whispered, stroking over the empty sockets with curled fingers, "you ungrateful _maggot_." And her left hand seized Henry's hair as the digits of her right hand thrust into the empty hole where his left eye had been.

One of the children, a girl, shrieked and Heather saw a rush of movement to quiet her. Henry's scream exploded in her ears, and he instinctively threw his arms up to grab the Holy Mother and push her away. But she twisted his hair again, twisted the hand invading the socket, twisted her head to watch him twitch and convulse. Blood seeped out from between his eyelids and moved slowly down his face.

"When this ends," Eileen's voice said softly, "it is My Will. When the blood stops its flow and the flesh heals, it is My Will."

She held him like that for a few moments more, twisting the fingers in his socket when his cries died down. When she finally withdrew her fingers, they were slick with blood and left bloody prints around his neck when she grabbed his throat and roughly threw him to the ground. He groaned painfully, arms drawn up over his face. Walter came forward, but he stared straight ahead at the Holy Mother, face blank, eyes wide. She met his gaze and all was still for Heather didn't know how long, until Miranda stepped forward.

The Mother turned to her, and Walter finally looked down at Henry and crouched by his side. He pulled Henry into his arms and Heather felt even sicker when Henry grabbed onto him and buried his face in Walter's chest.

"I apologize if we did not do enough to encourage his cooperation," Miranda said quietly, coming closer and bowing. She averted her eyes, but Heather could sense her excitement.

"All frustration is over," the Holy Mother said, extending her hand, running her bloody nails through the old woman's hair. She cocked her head curiously, as if she was examining an interesting bug. "It's done now."

Heather felt a change in the air before Eileen's hand curled around Miranda's jaw, before Miranda screamed and blood ran down her neck. Everyone must have been in shock; there was no other sound as the Holy Mother flung the priestess to the side, a sharp crack resounding throughout the cave as she hit the ground.


	33. Chapter TwentyEight

**Disclaimer:** I have no ownership of the Silent Hill brand and all that.

**Author's Note:** Here we go, the last chapter and the epilogue. I plan to one day go back to the beginning and edit this. If that gets done, I'll add the April Fool's ending, so if you care to go back you'll get a notification if it's on your list.

Anyhow, it's been a long three years. Sorry for the 8-month wait for this, but thank you for reading.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Eight  
Propitiation**

Miranda's body lay still, one knobby shoulder visibly popped from its socket. The first shriek rang out, shattering the numb, terrified silence. The room exploded. Screaming men and women ran toward the tunnel or to the back of the cavern or to each other. The children huddled at the edge of the room, sobbing.

Heather didn't see when the Holy Mother started on the rest of them, only that suddenly the horrified screams were joined by the sound of cracking, splitting bone and wet tearing flesh. The Mother rent apart struggling bodies and crushed skulls into the walls, her every movement as brutal as it was graceful. A cluster of Brothers and Sisters made it to the tunnel mouth, and She simply cast Her hand through the air. They crumpled to the ground, and She continued on with the others.

Heather couldn't move; Michael's knife still pressed into her throat. She wondered what the hell he was doing, just standing there, until he murmured in a daze, "My God..." in her ear. _You moron, we're going to die!_ she thought frantically, unable to look away from the massacre.

A woman rushed up and grabbed Michael's arm. Blood ran down her face and into the neckline of her dress, and she shook the priest desperately. Heather gritted her teeth as the knife bit into her skin. She watched the Holy Mother drop a headless body, then snatch up a man and slice Her nails down his front. His ribs snapped loudly in quick succession. The Sister begged, "Father, Father, please do something! Help us!"

Michael seemed to come back to himself. "Get off!" he snapped.

"Please, please, help us!" the woman sobbed, not letting go.

The knife pressed on, and Heather leaned her head back, resisting the urge to swallow against the blade.

"I said get off!" Michael growled.

A figure knelt before the Holy Mother, hands clasped, begging lost in the noise. It was Rosemary. The Mother stared down at her, and Heather almost thought She would stop, until She reached down and grabbed the priestess by the throat. Heather groaned as the Mother tore into Rosemary's abdomen, blood spreading quickly down her white robe.

"Father!" the Sister bawled.

Michael lashed out his arm and shoved the woman away, briefly relieving Heather of the knife. She tried to twist away, but his other arm was wrapped securely around her waist.

"What are you doing?!" Heather screamed as the blade forced her still again. "She's going to kill all of us!"

"That doesn't mean I have to let you go," he hissed into her ear, and she felt the knife bite again.

Heather didn't see the body flying towards them until it struck her in the stomach. She and Michael fell back, and he lost his grip on her as they hit the ground. Breathing hard, she hurried to shove the body-- Rosemary-- off her legs. Hand to her throat, Heather scrambled away from him, tripping over the robed figures discarded on the ground. She searched their hands for a blade or a spear, but she saw nothing and had to turn back to Michael and watch for his knife.

He was on his feet as well, but his gaze was set across the room. He was mesmerized by the Holy Mother, by the ease in which She inspired the chaos, the fluidity of Her movements as she brought down one cultist after another. So little time had passed and already the live Brothers and Sisters were vastly outnumbered by the bodies strewn about, whole and in pieces. Those who remained cowered in the gloom at the back of the cave, holding their arms over their heads, crying. In only a moment they were gone too, fresh blood slapping across the stone wall.

Heather felt sick. She tried to look for Henry and Walter, but all she could see were the broken bodies strewn all over the cavern and the Holy Mother standing in their midst.

"Mother!" Michael suddenly called, and he thrust his knife toward Heather. "What have we done? She is the one who has betrayed you!"

The Mother did not look at him. She raised a hand in his direction and he only made the slightest of sounds in his throat before he fell.

And then She turned to the children.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Deirdre huddled with Elizabeth against the wall. The other children pressed in around them, too afraid to run for the adults, too afraid to do more than cry or scream. Deirdre couldn't do either as she watched the Holy Mother lift a Sister by her neck and slash her open with Her claws. A spatter of blood hit Deirdre's face and Elizabeth wailed, pulling Deirdre closer. Deirdre wondered if her mother had died this way.

She searched the frenzy for Walter, for surely he would help them, find out why his Mother was so angry. She spotted him among the lifeless bodies. He sat on the floor with Henry, and he did not move, and he did not look scared. Deirdre could not have told anyone how he looked, only that his eyes followed the Holy Mother no matter how fast she moved. Deirdre wondered if she shouldn't be scared, if she would be punished for being afraid.

Suddenly she couldn't see him anymore; two adult figures stood in front of her. A woman and a man—no, a boy. It was Ivan, shaking as he pulled the boys and girls to their feet, sputtering as he urged them towards the exit. Alice grabbed Deirdre and Elizabeth by their arms and hoisted them up, telling them to run, to follow Ivan. But Deirdre couldn't move, and Alice picked her up. Over her teacher's shoulder, Deirdre could see pieces of Brothers and Sisters all over the ground. And then she realized the Holy Mother was looking at her. Deirdre dug her fingers into Alice's shoulders. The Mother lifted Her hand, and Deirdre felt something happening in her chest.

But then that girl, the Heretic Mother, stepped between them. The Holy Mother lowered her hand. The two got smaller, farther away in a spot of light. Then it was dark, and all Deirdre could hear was the crying and fumbling steps of the other boys and girls, echoing in the tunnel.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

The handle of Michael's knife was still warm. It had frightened Heather when he held it to her throat, but when she clutched it in her own hand in front of the Holy Mother, it felt like a prop. Yet she wasn't afraid, not yet. It was too surreal. The beast before her could slaughter her without so much as a flick of Her wrist. Heather didn't know why She hadn't yet. Maybe She thought Heather was worth more effort than that.

The children were gone, stolen away by those two cultists who'd appeared out of nowhere. All the others were dead except for Walter and Henry. She could see them now in the sudden calm, sitting just at the edge of her sight. Walter did not get up.

Nothing seemed to be happening. Heather didn't know how much time had passed. She decided to speak first.

"You're different from the last God I met."

The Holy Mother brushed a lock of bloody hair out of Her eyes, considering Heather for a moment. Then, for the first time, she smiled and laughed, a low sound with a strange hiss. "She who is called the 'Holy Mother' be not holy one whit."

"Not holy one whit," Henry repeated, voice dull. Heather glanced over at him, lying on the floor in Walter's arms. He went on. "The Descent of the Holy Mother be naught but the Descent of the Devil."

_Oh, good_, Heather thought, adjusting her grip on the knife. _A devil. Fantastic._

"Not God," Walter whispered, voice low. "But... Mother..."

Henry laughed cruelly. "You have no mother."

"I am Mother," the beast said, and when Heather looked back She no longer smiled. "I am Authority. I chose what to nurture and what to let die. I am here, and a new world shall begin."

"We'll see!" Heather snapped, pushing herself forward with all her bravery. She lunged with the knife, and the Mother grabbed the blade, tore it from Heather's hand, and tossed it away to land among the bodies.

"A thorn," the Mother said dully.

Heather hastily reached down into her boot and pulled out the seal. She held it out defensively despite having no idea what to do with it. Should she spout an incantation of her own? Or was she fooling herself? The Holy Mother looked at the round stone like a cat might regard a piece of fluff rolling across the floor.

But when the Mother did move, it was a blur. Heather's fingers reflexively locked around the seal when Eileen's hand crushed into her throat and knocked her back several feet into the cold wall. Pain flashed at the back of Heather's head and burned down her back. She kicked her legs and choked for air.

"You know nothing of that," said the Mother, relaxing her hand slightly. Still, Heather could hardly breathe. "You want nothing of it, yet you try to use it." The smile returned, and she pressed her free hand into Heather's abdomen, slowly digging her nails through Heather's clothing.

It was just a rock, was all Heather could think. It wasn't like the aglaophotis, like a medicine with who-knew-what in it that she would expect to have some kind of reaction. This was just a beat-up rock that had done nothing to help her since she returned to this town. This was a scratched disc with wax in the grooves, like some goth kid's creepy art project.

But... she couldn't think that. What she clutched in her hand was not some harmless pentagram keychain. This was a seal, a sign of power in the organization that had taken everything from her: a childhood from Alessa, a new life from Cheryl, and worst of all, a father from Heather. With this power, the cult had slithered into her life once again and killed the man who had loved her in all her incarnations. She didn't want to believe it. She wanted to believe that it was all a nightmare, that Heather still had her Daddy and this was all nonsense, something she'd dreamed up after a scary movie. But what she wanted and what was real were two painfully different things. And this power was real.

She couldn't not believe in it.

Heather slapped the seal onto the back of the Mother's hand, her other hand grabbing the woman's wrist, holding it as tightly as she could even when the Mother shrieked and tried to pull away. The hand around Heather's throat squeezed, crushed, and immediately she could not breathe. The pressure threatened to snap her neck, and somewhere in her panic for air Heather told herself to match it, to hold onto the seal and the hand. With the seal, her will could compete with the Mother's power; she just had to hold on. The Mother yowled in pain, and as spots formed in front of Heather's eyes, she felt the Mother losing strength. Finally, the hand at her throat released her, and Heather let go too, falling to the ground. The Holy Mother reeled back, hand held before Her face.

Beneath splotches and smears of red, the Halo of the Sun was imprinted in blue on the back of Her hand, and She gazed upon it in horror as Her skin grew paler. The strength of Her form withered and She doubled over, some dark liquid seeping from Her mouth. Heather pressed back into the wall as the Mother collapsed to Her knees and vomited, and it was most definitely blood. No, it was blood and more, fleshy chunks, like rotten meat. Green eyes flashed hatefully at Heather for an instant before the light died and Her expression slackened, a mannequin without a smile. She fell forward into the bloody mess and was still.

Coughing, Heather stared, wary to believe it. Carefully, she crawled forward and brushed her fingers against the bony arm. "Eileen?" she rasped through her aching throat.

Eileen did not move. Heather repeated her name, shaking the body's shoulder, but there was no response.

"Eileen?" Henry's voice this time, echoing with uncertainty.

Heather couldn't look at him. "Henry, I... I'm sorry, she..." Eileen's body slid backwards and Heather yelped, recoiling. But it wasn't Eileen who had moved. Walter pulled her toward him by her leg, turned her over, and crawled over her body.

"Mom?" he sobbed. "Mom?"

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Somewhere, far away, Walter cried and Heather shouted at him. Henry sat alone in the darkness in his head. Once again, Eileen was gone. He looked for the sadness, but instead he felt nothing. That, perhaps, was scarier than anything.

It was cold. Walter, at the very least, had been warm. Henry laughed at the idea of missing Walter, quietly and intensely until he had to force himself to breathe. "Ohgodohgodohgod," he chanted hoarsely, and bit his lip, trying to gain control of himself.

Control. He used to have control. He used to have a handle on himself, on his emotions. Even when he was trapped in his apartment and Walter's world, he was able to remain calm, think of what to do, make choices. He shut down everything to help himself survive. He couldn't imagine doing that now. He didn't even know how he had managed it before.

He tasted blood and unclenched his teeth. The coppery taste filled his mouth and he spat, waiting for the inevitable prickling sensation. But it didn't come. He missed a breath and lightly touched the broken skin. It stung, but did not heal.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

The pain was terrible, searing through one side of her face, through one shoulder, stabbing all over her body. She tasted blood, and the ground beneath her was achingly cold. She drew in a breath and air knived her lungs. Her eyes slammed open and her body tensed against the agony, but the pain only increased. The air was like ice against her eyes.

Something bright lay on the floor in front of her face. A knife, a long thin blade with a black handle. Michael's knife. And beyond it, shuddering above the sea of bodies, the Receiver of Wisdom.

She wanted to laugh, to cackle, but the pain twisted horribly as her throat worked. Oh, what a fool she'd been, to trust a nonbeliever to give her what she needed. He'd tricked them all. How clever in his deceitfulness, his easy tears. It was him, yes, he had lied about everything. He had risked her seeing through his ruse, risked the safety of his family. And she had thought him weak.

She ground her teeth. Her body twitched painfully. With a shaky breath she worked her good arm out from under her body. Her fingers scratched at the knife handle until they could wrap around it. She grinned despite the warm blood leaking out of the corner of her mouth and shook with silent laughter.

The Receiver still sat with his head in his hands, shoulders shaking, so sad, so sad, oblivious to everything else. She stretched out her arm and beat her fist into the floor, knife pointing straight up in her grip. She pulled herself forward, cheek grinding against the ground, breathing hard with the effort. He lifted his head, but she had only to pull herself forward twice more and she'd have the knife in his gut.

_I was right to blind you, you fool._

She felt large, strong hands grab either side of her head, pull her half off the ground, and twist.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

The approaching, gurgling sound was interrupted by a sickening snap. Something heavy fell to the stone floor, and so did something lighter, metallic. It skittered into Henry's leg.

"Henry," Walter said quietly. Henry did not hear any more tears. "She... Mother... It was a lie."

Henry didn't know what just happened, still couldn't stop thinking about Eileen, still tasted blood in his mouth, mortality restored. "Yes," he said.

"Henry." Hands on Henry's face. "Henry, she lied. I..." A pause. Walter's thumb brushed the fresh welt on Henry's lip. "It's all gone. It wasn't..."

Henry almost fell over when Walter lurched forward and wrapped his arms around him. He felt Walter's breath against his chest. Henry did nothing for a moment, then brought his left arm across Walter's back.

"There's only you," Walter said quietly.

"It's over now," Henry said. There was a slip of noise, metal briefly skimming across stone.

"Only you, Henry," Walter said, holding Henry tighter.

Some seconds of silence, and then Heather's gasp flew across the room, and Walter's breath hitched with surprise. Henry made no noise at all, just held the knife in Walter's side. He hesitated before twisting it, and finally winced when Walter cried out.

"H-Henry!" But Walter did not let go.

Henry held him close. "Shhh," he whispered. "It's over now."

Walter convulsed once, twice, and let out a pathetic whimpering noise until life finally abandoned him. Henry pushed the body away, leaving the knife in its side, and struggled to his feet.

"Are you there?" he said into the nothingness.

"I... I'm here..." He heard Heather grunt, then heard her slow, deliberative steps across the room. He felt her hand tentatively touch his arm.

The last time she had touched him, his brain burned, and so much about her-- her names, her purpose-- came to him from the dark. Now he felt only her concerned touch. The poking, prodding presence in his head was gone. He would receive nothing more.

It was over. No more visions, headaches, or strange thoughts. And no more Walter either. No silent company ceaselessly staring. No trays of food forced down his throat. No reassurances and unwanted touches. No protection in captivity.

Henry got what he had wanted, done what he had set out to do when, ages ago, he went down that strange black hole and met Walter by the bloody pool.

And again, Eileen did not survive. But really, all the long, despite his hopes and prayers, she'd never had a chance.

"Henry?"

"Take me home."

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

It was slow going. Every part of her hurt, and Henry couldn't go anywhere without her help. They moved through the tunnel quietly.

"What should I call you?" he suddenly asked.

"What?" she replied dumbly. What a question to ask at a time like this. More appropriate might've been, "Are you sure they're all dead?"

"What is your name now?"

She stopped, needing to rest again. They had reached the tunnel mouth. She looked up at the dull leaves of the trees. There was still barely any light. She wondered if that meant anything. If the source of the affliction that had overtaken Silent Hill was gone, shouldn't the fog be gone too? Unless the fog was normal. Or maybe nothing had changed.

_Oh, God, please let this have done something..._ What good was any of it if she would have to come back again? Would it ever end? How long would she have to carry on her father's fight for her to have a normal life, alone?

"You are a brave girl."

"What?" She looked up at Henry. He sagged against a tree. She knew that even without the blindfold he could not look at her, but somehow she felt his gaze on her anyway.

"You didn't run away."

"... I couldn't. Would you have? Without her?"

"No, not before they... they did that to her. But after that... I..." His hands balled into fists. "I couldn't have fought that."

_Not in the mess you are, no, you couldn't. _She felt even more tired just looking at him.

"I don't think I could be that strong."

_My strong Cheryl..._ "It's what my father taught me to be."

"He would be proud."

"I hope so."

"I-I was never what my father wanted me to be," Henry burst out abruptly. "I didn't want to be. But I still think it would be nice, if he could look at me and see just one thing he liked. Then I wouldn't feel stuck, like I was always waiting for him to see I wasn't a mistake. I used to think about that a lot. Before all this, I--" Henry cut himself off abruptly and buried his face in his hands. "I'm sorry. I... I don't know how to have a normal conversation anymore."

"It's okay," she said, taking him by the arm. "When we get you home, they'll just be happy you're alive."

They started walking again, and after a few minutes, he said, "Thank you, Heather."

"I told you before," she said quietly. "Call me Cheryl."

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Cheryl carefully led Henry along the path to the edge of the island. And there, huddled by the dock, was the woman who'd run off with the children. She knelt in a cluster of boys and girls, and she looked pained that she could not wrap her arms around all of them. The young man who had been with her was gone. It seemed that there weren't as many children as before.

"I'm calling the police," Cheryl said, trying to sound threatening.

The woman did not even look up. "We'll be gone. The police won't come in until they know it's safe." Her voice dropped. "It's safe, sweethearts. It's safe. It's safe."

Cheryl tugged on Henry's arm, taking a few steps towards the dock, but a little voice interrupted them, crying, "Henry!"

A girl broke away from the huddled children and ran through the mist. She latched onto Henry's legs, and though he wobbled on his feet, he did not react. "Henry!" she cried again. "Why are you going with her?"

What struck Cheryl the most was how the girl still looked terrified. She wondered if any of these kids could grow up right in the head after what they'd seen. She spoke to the girl softly. "Henry is going home."

"Nooooo," the girl whined, shaking her head. "Henry, stay! Henry, where is he?"

Henry seemed to come to life, head tilting down to the sound of the girl's voice. His hands found her shoulders and she grabbed his elbows, as if he would pick her up.

"Where is he, Henry?"

"I'm sorry," Henry said, voice heavy. He abruptly let go of the girl and lurched away. "Oh, God, I'm sorry."

"Henry!" the girl shrieked. Cheryl grabbed her and tried to steer her towards the woman. "Let me go!"

"Look," Cheryl said, crouching down so she could talk to the girl face to face. "Henry needs to go home. Kid, I'm sorry, but--"

The girl clumsily hit Cheryl across the cheek and pulled away. Red-faced, she screamed, "You're taking him to Hell!"

"Deirdre, come here," the woman with the children said.

Deirdre looked distraught. "But Alice--"

"Henry is going home," Alice said. "Come here."

The little girl's eyes watered and her lips pressed together. She threw herself down, buried her face in the dirt, and cried.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo**

Cheryl did her best to direct the boat toward the light shining in the distance. Her arms ached terribly, but she pushed through the pain, concentrating on the light. Time moved slowly, and when the light hung over her head she had to rest before she could pull Henry out of the boat. He did not object. He didn't say a word.

There was a sound in the distance. Voices, mostly young ones, crying. The other children. One strained voice spoke over them.

"You'll be safe, I promise! Stay here! I have to take the boat back to Sister Alice and help her with the others!"

Cheryl stayed quiet, staring up at the dock, waiting. Soon enough, a young man in black appeared. He halted when he saw her, his eyes wide and frightened. She didn't say anything. His eyes flickered from her to Henry and back again, until finally he scrambled into his boat on the other side of the dock. She watched him row away until the fog swallowed him.

"Come on," Cheryl muttered to Henry, wearily climbing up onto the dock. She grabbed Henry's outstretched arms and ignored her groaning muscles as she helped him out of the boat. The children continued to cry; the sound came from a cabin not far from the water. She led Henry onto land, to the road, and said, "I have a car. A few miles north."

"Okay."

She intended to start walking then, but the whimpers in the fog stopped her. Could she just leave them? Well, she had to, didn't she? Was she going to pile them all into a sedan that very well could have been towed by now? As if they would come with her at all, the evil "Heretic Mother." She had a feeling that even after what happened on the island, they'd be more willing to let the Holy Mother spirit them away.

But there was still the fog, always the fog. How could she know it was safe? What if something was still out there?

The crying voices fell silent, and immediately Cheryl felt dread. She turned to see what creature had stunned them, but there was no terrible monster. There was just light, a spot of it, breaking through the gray and falling onto the road alongside the camp. She was so stunned that she did not know if it was her imagination that even the fog seemed to be falling back, like it would in any normal place.

The Mother was gone. The mystique over the town, Cheryl knew, was not-- that would be too easy-- but the residents could come back to their homes. The children would be safe too, she assented as she watched the light spread to the lake and sharpen the crests of the waves. Yes, they would be with that cult boy and woman, but the police would...

The light had illuminated the stretch of sand along the shore. Cheryl backed up, moving up the road. "C'mon," she said to Henry. She pulled him along hurriedly, forgetting to be mindful of his balance.

"Wh-what is it?" Henry said through a stumble.

"Nothing," she said quickly. "We've got a long walk. Can you make it?"

"Yes."

Cheryl pulled on his arm, and he followed obediently. She did not look back at the shore, at what she had at first thought was an incredible amount of black debris, old chunks of driftwood. But in the fresh light, she could see that the bulks of sleek, porous wood strewn around the shore were actually limp mounds of wet, matted fur, tails like lines of ink poured into the sand, fanged jaws open in silent wails.


	34. Epilogue

**Note:** For those that skipped to the last part for this update, you may wanna go back one.

* * *

**Epilogue**

In a city not far east of Silent Hill, there is an orphanage. Like many orphanages, it has long been overcrowded, but the staff could not turn away the seven girls and six boys who turned up on their doorstep one evening. They were alone, all dressed in matching black dresses and robes, and they were quiet for days, refusing to say a word to the counselors or the police. They kept to each other, treating the staff and other children like dangerous animals who had to be carefully watched from a distance.

Finally, after a few days, the children broke down in individual sessions with the counselors. They gave their names and tearfully asked if God had abandoned them or what the nonbelievers would do to them. Only one girl, Deirdre, said something more: "God died in Silent Hill. Alice brought us here to find a new one. She and Ivan can't help us find her." She would not go on, and with her silence Alice and Ivan effectively vanished into the world.

In a quaint, polished middle-class town much farther from the isolated Silent Hill, there lives an old married couple. For weeks after their only son's violent death they grieved, with no answers to console them and regrets to haunt them. And so when Henry appeared on their doorstep in tattered clothing and blind but alive, it was a miracle from God.

Caught up in their tears and their shock, the couple did not notice Cheryl slip away before anything could be asked of her. As she drove onto the interstate towards home, she had the feeling-- for the first time in a long time-- that everything could be okay again. For once, she though, she would call Douglas instead of waiting for him.

And in a city a day's drive from Silent Hill, police pulled down the yellow tape around run-down South Ashfield Heights, after two months of bizarre deaths and incidents. Anyone could survive entering the building now, and all the strange occurrences it seemed to spread throughout the city had stopped entirely.

It was not long after the investigation ended that the apartment complex, though sound in structure, was condemned and scheduled for demolition. The rooms inside seemed prepared for it, each mysteriously torn apart-- except for one. One apartment was remarkably clean, as if it had just been scrubbed down. Inside it was eerily serene, quiet with soft light.

No voices, no ghosts, no shudders of the spine.

Just an empty room.


End file.
